The Ties That Bind
by SeaweedWrites
Summary: After the events of Musgrave and Sherrinford, Sherlock Holmes was ready to get back to what he considered a 'normal life'. But when Irene Adler comes back into the picture, bringing a long held secret with her, his world is once again turned upside down. Things may never be 'normal' again.
1. Trial by Fire

This is a behemoth of a story that has been stewing in my brain for a while now.

I stumbled upon a story about Irene Adler. I talked to the author and they led me to more stories with her and another character. I haven't read all of them yet, there are quite a few. Some are extraordinarily long and dense and amazing and brilliant. They're in my bookmarks if you want to read them. (PLEASE DO!)

I decided that I would like to try my hand in this universe as well. I can only hope my story does them justice.

The bulk of this story will take place a few months after "The Final Problem", but there will be flashbacks to the end of "A Scandal in Belgravia". Spoiler warning for the whole series.

There will be sexual situations (nothing overly graphic), talk about medical procedures that could be considered graphic, and adult language. Please read at your discretion.

I have finally found a beta, the lovely and talented Hoosiergirl81 on , so this story should be a lot better than my earlier fics, I hope.

This is my first ever multi chapter Sherlock Holmes story, so I hope you all like it.

After the events of Musgrave and Sherrinford, Sherlock Holmes was ready to get back to what he considered a 'normal life'. But when Irene Adler comes back into the picture, bringing a long held secret with her, his world is once again turned upside down. Things may never be 'normal' again.

" _Blest be the tie that binds our hearts."_ -John Fawcett, 1782.

Xxxxxx

 _ **Chapter 1**_

Sherlock sighed and fell back into his black leather chair, running a large hand over his face. John would have called today a 'danger day'. He had to find something to do. His mind was racing too fast to concentrate on reading, Greg had stopped responding to the texts that he had been sending every 15 minutes asking if there were any dead bodies to investigate. And his favorite 'crap telly' shows wouldn't start for another couple of hours. He was running low on options. Unconsciously, his thoughts wandered back to the events of several months ago.

The world had stopped turning with the revelation that he had a sister, and the subsequent days were

filled with terror and dread and memories from long ago, He had buried them so deeply that even he couldn't find them on his own.

They survived the trial by fire, but not unscathed. Even as new bonds had been forged, others fractured. Mycroft had lied. He had been lying since Sherlock was 5 years old. Even Mycroft's attempt at self sacrifice deep within the bowels of Sherrinford wasn't enough to dull the sting of his deception. Trust, once lost, is hard fought to win back.

Since the events of Sherrinford and Musgrave, Sherlock had seemed more alone than ever before. Communications with Mycroft were few and far between, and John Watson was back to living in the flat he had shared with Mary- busy between work and raising a child. It was a rare delight when he visited Baker Street, and rarer still when they partook in the thrill of a chase or the satisfaction of solving a particularly tough case.

So far he had been able to resist the siren's call, the rush of Dopamine as the needle hit his vein and the entire world slid away into a sweet, utter nothingness. DI Lestrade had refused to give him cases for the first two weeks after the incident. Sherlock had nothing- not his brother, and not his blogger. He'd literally had the needle to his skin several times, but his better judgment had prevailed. He knew if he relapsed now, there would be no one to stop him from dying. Finally, Sherlock was able to convince Greg that it would be better for his health if he had cases to work on, and to his utter relief, Greg agreed.

Slowly, languidly, life returned- mostly- to the way it used to be. The flat seemed empty with no John to bounce ideas off of, but at least he still had the artificial high of solving cases. It wasn't nearly as intense, and it didn't last as long as the needle, but any high was better than the alternative. Death was preferable to boredom.

A few months after Sherrinford, Sherlock found himself attempting to deal with a rather humdrum Monday. John and Rosie had visited the day before. Rosie had already been crawling, and was now starting to pull herself up to a standing position, which meant that soon walking would be an inevitability. What had been a pleasant weekend had bled into an unconscionably dull Monday. He could feel those urges returning. A 7% solution would brighten up this dreary day.

 _No_.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't fall back into those habits.

His eyes wandered around the apartment. Since he never knew when John and Rosie would show up, he tried to keep the apartment- or at least the living room— as tidy as he could. As soon as the child became upwardly mobile, there would be no stopping her from exploring every nook and cranny. It was undeniable. There was simply no way to baby proof 221B, but he did the best that he could under the circumstances.

This also meant that he was going to have to be a lot more careful about where he placed his stashes, both of cigarettes, and harder things. He would sooner die a million deaths than have Rosie stumble across anything that might harm her. He'd love to say that he could just get rid of everything and not have to worry about it. But he knew better. He had tried to clear his flat of all of his vices many times in the past, and he always acquired more. Even if he didn't use it, it was some sort of terrible comfort, knowing that it was there if things became too much to bear. So many times he had almost reached that breaking point, and then pulled himself back from the breach.

His eyes darted over to the kitchen table, where a box of nicotine patches lay torn asunder, already plundered of most of its booty. There was only one patch left. He loathed the thought of going out to get more, but his body craved the drug . His fingers, usually rock steady, trembled under his dark gaze. Sherlock's phone lay ignored on the table beside his favorite chair. The distinctive noise that heralded a text from his brother had sounded several times, but the messages lay unread.

He steepled his hands under his chin, closed his eyes, and went to the only place remaining, his mind palace. It was dangerous, he knew, but he wanted to try to explore some of those perilous doors that had been opened at Musgrave. He desperately needed to remember more about Victor Trevor, even if recalling those memories was as hazardous as playing with a bear trap.

The sun had reached it zenith and was starting to fall behind the tall buildings in London's skyline, and still Sherlock sat, unmoving– his breath steady, his body stiff, his breathing steady. The world turned around him and he paid it no mind.

That was, until he hear the telltale creak of the third step. The footfalls were light, much lighter than John or Greg's. It was clearly a woman, but not as delicate as Mrs. Hudson's. Besides, she knew which step to avoid. His eyes popped open and he turned his head, curious as to who would be visiting this late. Perhaps a new case. He could only hope for something interesting enough to take.

What he got was so much more.

There were two quick raps at the door, but whoever was behind it didn't wait for permission before opening it and walking right in. Her high heels clicked on the wood surface, He first saw a shapely leg in a dress cut up the side to allow for movement. Impeccably groomed, blood red nails tipped the long, thin fingers that wrapped around the edge of his door.

Time seemed to slow. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears. It couldn't be.

"Mr. Holmes."

That throaty purr. It was the same as all those years ago. His body stopped cooperating, he wanted to say something, but his vessel was staging a coup at the worst possible time. Her scent, it was the same– soft bergamot and rose, with an undercurrent of spice. Her body was more well rounded than it had been in the past. Was that simply from age, or had something changed in her life? Even after all of these years, she was an enigma to him, which both frustrated and intrigued him.

She carried nothing other than a small black purse clutched in her right hand. He could tell that she hadn't been getting a lot of sleep lately. She tried to cover it up with makeup, but he could see the darkness under the folds of her eyes. Something was definitely worrying her, though he couldn't get any clues about what it might be.

"Ms. Adler." He raised an eyebrow as she made her way over to the couch and made herself quite comfortable. She sat down and made a point of very slowly crossing her legs, sending a spike of warmth through Sherlock. He had forgotten what she could do to him with as simple a movement as crossing one's legs, though he would never admit it. "I never expected to see you here."

"I never expected to come here." The soft, inviting smile she had been wearing immediately dropped. He'd always admired that about her. Much like himself, she could wear whatever emotion she needed to at the moment, and drop it when it it was no longer necessary.

"I am here on some rather serious business." She abandoned all pretense of pleasantries. Sherlock was never one for the droll banter that came with normal conversation anyways. He was quite ready to get to the heart of the matter.

His hands steepled once again. "Serious business." He repeated."It must be of some importance for you to risk blowing your cover here in London."

"Of course I'm not here under my own name." Sherlock didn't take it as the barb it sounded like, only cocking an eyebrow upwards in response. "I just arrived, and I'm leaving tomorrow morning, with or without you."

"Me?" Sherlock let out a low baritone chuckle."Why on earth would I want to leave London with you?" His hard drive was whirring at full speed. What kind of trouble could she be in that she would need him to follow her back to where she came from? It couldn't be something major enough for the police to get involved in, or, more likely, she didn't want the police involved.

He had caught a whiff of her perfume. It was Armani. Could she be living somewhere in Italy now? It was a very popular perfume, so that wasn't a dead giveaway. Her clothing gave him nothing specific either. He was once again, at a loss when it came to The Woman.

"I..." She hesitated, her eyes dropped down to her clasped hands. A minute quiver in her chin betrayed her. Sherlock saw something soflty break on her face. Never before, not even all those years ago in Karachi, had he seen her afraid.

 _A soft touch..._

 _Fingers intertwined..._

 _The barest hint of deep red lips pressed against alabaster skin..._

Sherlock shook his head. Opening his mind palace had brought other memories to the surface, memories that he would rather had stayed buried for good. He saw that Irene was so adrift in her own thoughts that she hadn't noticed his brief loss in concentration.

"I need your help." She finally admitted.

Well, she had his attention now. Something had happened since he had last seen her. The Woman that he knew would never have admitted to any sort of weakness. "Help... with what?" A small part of his ego inflated when he realized that she trusted him enough to come to him when she needed help, though he had no idea how he would be able to aid her.

"You might be the only person who can save a life."

It made no sense. She'd started a new existence after Karachi. Why would she risk everything to see him now? If she was indeed now living in Italy, which was his only logical deduction with the limited information that he had, was she in trouble with the mafia? If that was the case, then even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't help her. He knew how to deal with small time crooks and murderers in London, but he knew better than to go up against made men.

"I think you must be mistaken. I helped you die, assisted you in disappearing. There is nothing else I can do for you." That stung her, He hadn't intended it to, but he saw it in her face. It was only for only a heartbeat, then the flinch was gone and she returned to her stoic expression.

"It... isn't for me."

This was getting tiring. Sherlock pushed hard and fast out of his chair and strode quickly towards the couch, stopping a hair's breadth from The Woman.

Bad idea. Long suppressed memories came flooding back.

 _The caress of skin on skin..._

 _Two heartbeats moving in synchronicity..._

 _A low, throaty moan..._

 _Calls for more... more... more..._

Almost immediately he backed away, his hair-trigger anger dissipated by thoughts that he could not keep hidden behind the mind palace room marked as 'The Woman' anymore.

"If it isn't for you, then who is it for?" His voice was low and even, just shy of threatening. He was tired of playing games. It was time to get to the heart of the matter.

One heartbeat of silence, then a second.

And finally a sigh. "My son." If Sherlock hadn't been paying attention, he might have missed it, her voice was so quiet.

Sherlock took a step back. "Your... son..."

"Yes. He... was in an auto accident in Rome. One kidney has been removed, and the other is failing. He is on a dialysis machine. Without a transplant, it's only a matter of time."

There it was. The Woman was stripped bare in front of Sherlock. She had never been this open with him, even in the most intimate of times.

 _Bodies crashing together..._

 _Ahhh... yes... there..._

 **STOP.**

Sherlock shook his head. There were still missing pieces that needed to fall into place.

"If he is your son, why would you risk your safety coming to London to ask for my help?"

Irene didn't answer. She didn't have to.

As soon as the words left his mouth, his brain caught up. There was only one reason.

The Earth ceased turning on its axis. There was nothing except his heartbeat thudding in his chest, beating a steady rhythm. The world melted around him. He forgot how to breathe and how to blink and it could have been hours that he was standing there, but it was only a few seconds. He knew, but he had to hear her say it, to confirm what was already breaking through his skin and melting deep into his bones.

"Irene, why?"

"Because he is our son. **Your** son."

And everything broke.

"Oh."


	2. Burning Sun

A niquab is the middle eastern headdress, usually black, that coveres everything but the eyes.

A burqua is the long, usually black dress/robe that goes with a niquab to cover every bit of a woman's body except her hands and feet.

The sights and smells I describe are partially derived from when I lived in Saudi Arabia, and traveled to India. It's hard to put it into adequate words.

Once again thanks to my beta Hoosiergirl81. She is making these chapters SO much better.

Xxxxx

Irene Adler desperately ripped the niquab off of her face and rubbed at the red marks that the ropes had made as they lashed against her skin. One look over to the driver's side of the truck brought this whole terrible nightmare into focus.

Hot orange sand lashed out at their truck, threatening to choke the engine and end the rescue before it even began. This had been meticulously planned, but it was the desert itself, something that they hadn't planned for, that had the best chance of making this mission a failure

"Turn over!" Sherlock, still in his disguise, attempted to start the truck several times, before the engine finally roared to life, spewing a cloud of fine sand in the air as it rumbled into readiness. The detective slammed his foot down, pressing the pedal to the floor. The wheels spun, momentarily stuck in the sand. His stomach dropped. They were going to die here and now.

Finally, the truck lurched forward, sending them careening back into their seats for a moment. He found the road leading to the front of the compound and sped towards it, keeping the pedal down as hard as he could. He knew that there was a large, thick wooden gate at the front of the compound, and if they had any chance of getting through, they needed the maximum force that the truck could exert. If not, then this would be about the shortest chase in history.

His heart raced, the blood pumped faster and faster. The gate rushed up to meet them. The quicker they could get through, the less chance that the guards would have time to realize what was going on, get their guns, and shoot at them.

Luck was on their side. The solitary guard continued napping until the roaring of the engine and the crashing of the gate woke him, only long enough to be impaled by a large fragment of the splintered wooden bar. The impact shook the entire truck, and for half a heartbeat, he was afraid that they would lose their momentum. The truck rumbled over the shards of the bar and continued on into the evening, leaving a destroyed guard shack in his rear view mirror, Slowly it shrunk and then finally faded away into nothingness.

Sherlock kept the pedal down until they reached the outskirts of the city, where they could blend in with the rest of the traffic. It was evening now, the sun loomed large in the sky and bathed everything in a rich tangerine hue. The lights of the city were just starting to spring to life, signaling the end of one cycle and the beginning of the next.

He didn't stop driving until they had made it through the entire city to the western outskirts of town. By then the sun was down, and the twinkling of the lights of town had dissipated to a soft glow in the rear view mirror.

He knew they were close when he heard a whirring noise- so terribly faint at first, but growing louder and louder, until the source of the dull roar appeared from behind a dune. A makeshift helicopter launch pad lay in front of them, and on it sat a chopper, whirled up and ready to go.

"When I stop the truck, run to the helicopter, I will be right beside you. We need to get out, NOW." His deathly serious tone surprised her. She nodded, and he readied herself, unbuckling his seat belt as he approached the makeshift tarmac.

Sherlock drove as close to the helicopter as he dared, slamming it to a stop, not even bothering to take out the keys. He threw it into park and yelled "RUN." Almost as one, they jumped from their seats, threw open the doors, and ran the short distance to the black chopper. "GO! NOW!" He commanded the pilot, and they were up in a matter of seconds.

As they lifted off from the ground, Sherlock dared to look back.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

He had no idea how, but several trucks full of men pulled up only moments behind them. A few were out of the vehicles quickly enough to take a couple of pot shots, but by then the helicopter was already far enough away that they needn't worry about any damage.

Sherlock handed her a pair of headphones, and put one on himself. "We can talk to each other, as well as the pilot with these." He explained, situating the microphone to his face. She took the headphones from his hand, and their fingers brushed against each other for just a moment. It was enough to send goosebumps down her arm. He could feel them through the thin veil of her burqua.

"Where are we going?"

"Bhuj, India, It's about 350 kilometers as the crow flies. I already have a hotel there. We will stay through tomorrow and leave the next morning. I have already arranged for a flight for you to the United States, and I will be flying back to London. I will talk to you about that later." She knew that because the pilot was listening, he didn't want to say more, but she was curious. If she was nothing else though, Irene Adler was a patient woman. Now that she had been saved, and once again had her whole life in front of her. She would wait.

After a moment of silence, Irene turned to the detective. "How did you procure a helicopter? The Iceman?"

"God, no. I don't want my brother meddling in my affairs. I had to call in a few favors."

She nodded her head. There was no need to respond.

It was the bumpiest and most boring two hours of Irene's life. There was really nothing to talk about, and even with headphones the roar of the helicopter made speaking pretty much impossible. The adrenaline of the chase had long since worn off. Her eyelids felt like they had weights tied to them. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed, she didn't even care what or where the hell it was right now, and sleep like the dead for a day or two. She would do anything to get this whole nightmare behind her.

Somehow, despite the thundering of the engine and the excitement of the day, Irene managed to slip off into some semblance of rest along the way. As the lights of Bhuj appeared under them, Sherlock softly woke her with a touch to the arm. She jolted awake, the fuzzy edges of sleep quickly forgotten as she realized where she was.

"We are landing at a helipad on the airport tarmac. It'll be easy to get a cab to the hotel."

"Even at this time of night? What time is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I would guess about 1 AM. And yes, we can find a cab."

When the helicopter landed, Sherlock thanked the pilot, jumped out, and offered a hand to assist Irene, which she gladly took. She wasn't sure how steady she would be on her feet right now, after everything that had happened today. The second time his hand touched hers was just as electric as the first. Her mind wandered back to Baker Street, months ago. She couldn't forget that evening when he had taken her pulse. Even the lightest touch from Sherlock was... intoxicating.

Her hand was soft and smooth, and even the odors of sand and oil and petrol weren't enough to mask the feminine scent that was hers, and hers alone. As she slowly pulled her hand away, his fingers trailed down her wrist for one brief moment, one last touch before they broke apart.

It was a thankfully short walk from the tarmac to the terminal proper. To her surprise, She saw taxis waiting at the front of the terminal, waiting for the red eye passengers that would start arriving soon. They flagged down a cabbie, and Sherlock spoke to him in a language that Irene knew sounded vaguely Indian, but she couldn't quite place it. A moment later, they were off.

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him the name of the hotel."

"In what language?"

"Kutchi."

"You didn't even ask if he spoke English?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't get much chance to practice my Kutchi in London. He understood me well enough, so I'm not that rusty, it seems."

Irene shook her head and smiled. "I guess brainy really is the new sexy."

The cab ride ended up being about as bumpy as the helicopter ride, Between the noise of the streets and the honking of the cars as they went every which way, it was almost as loud. Thankfully, it was much shorter- they arrived less than 15 minutes later. Sherlock handed the driver more rupees than the trip would have cost, and got out, holding the door open for Irene once again.

The hotel wasn't much. If it had been up to Irene, she wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like this. It looked like it had been old several centuries ago. Intricate carvings and delicate silks covered the drab brown walls. It was a strange mix of beautiful and boring. She had never seen anything quite like it.

So many sensations assaulted them- incense and old wood, perfumed silk and rose water. Speakers hanging from the wall with raw wiring trailing down from them lured customers in with the soft sounds of the sitar and tabla. The hotel may not have looked like much on the outside, but it was a feast for the eyes and the ears, the nose and the soul.

"Good evening, sir, ma'am." The man at the front desk greeted them in very heavily accented but near perfect English. "Late check in?"

Before Irene could say anything, Sherlock grabbed her hand and interlaced their fingers. He brought their hands up to his lips and gave the back of her hand a quick kiss. Behind his seemingly adoring gaze, his sharp blue eyes telegraphed his intentions.

 _Play along._

Had her eyes dilated when he kissed her hand? He was sure that they had. He certainly hadn't had to take her hand and kiss it, but he simply couldn't resist. It would have only taken a little movement of his hand to take her pulse, and oh how badly he wanted to. To his relief, she played along and kept her fingers intertwined in his. He marveled at how long and delicate her fingers were. She had perfect violinist's fingers, which made him wonder if she ever had ever played the instrument.

"Yes, Our flight was delayed. We are Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Pennyworth."

"Ah, yes. The honeymoon suite." He smiled at them. "I hope you will enjoy it." He looked down at their feet."You... don't have any luggage?"

"It was lost at the airport. They are looking for it. Hopefully they will find it soon." Irene answered, giving Sherlock a quick, sly look.

"We are jet lagged and sleepy and would love nothing more than to get some rest." Sherlock added with a finality that the both hoped would put this conversation to bed.

Thankfully, it did. "Of course. I apologize for the inconvenience. Let me show you to your room personally."

The hotel was only two floors, so it was a quick walk to the end of the hall and up the stairs, where the honeymoon suite lay. The hotel manager opened the door and turned on the lights. The room was on the corner of the building, so it provided wonderful views in two directions of the city. It wasn't huge, but there was a decently sized living room where you could see the city through the windows that stretched almost floor to roof. To the left was a bathroom that had a tub and a separate shower, and to the right was the bedroom.

With one bed.

She hadn't even thought about that.

Well, they were 'newlyweds' so it only made sense. She noticed a few chairs but no couch to speak of, which meant that were going to share a bed, no matter what. She could make him sleep on the floor. It wouldn't be the first time someone had slept at the foot of her bed. But he had just saved her life, she could at least afford him one evening in the same bed.

"You two have a wonderful evening. Breakfast is from 7 until 9 AM in the main lobby. Goodnight!" He smiled at them, put the ancient looking key on the table, and closed the door.

They had no clothes other than what they were wearing under their disguises. They had no luggage and she still had no idea what Sherlock had arranged or how she was going to get anywhere with no luggage, no money, and no passport. She had so many more questions than answers, but right now she was so tired that the only thing her sleep addled mind could think of was how comfortable those pillows looked.

"We might as well get some rest, Sherlock."

"You go ahead."

"I know you are tired."

Sherlock tried to wave away her statement like it was ludicrous, but he was sure that his face told another story. His vessel had gone without sleep for close to 3 days now- between planning, travel, and the actual escape. He needed sleep, he craved it like a drowning man craved air.

"I'll be alright."

She shrugged. She was not his keeper. If he didn't want to sleep, that was on him. Irene didn't have much of a choice of bedclothes, since she was wearing a rather tight fitting black dress under the burqua that had already been disposed of between the helicopter and the airport terminal. There was no way she could sleep in it. She kicked off her heels, slipped under the soft covers, and removed the dress, leaving only her bra, panties and a slip. If he wasn't going to sleep, then there shouldn't be a problem, she figured. She was tired enough that even Sherlock's presence couldn't make the bed seem inviting for anything other than sleep.

The sheets felt like satin and the pillows like clouds to her weary body. No sooner had she removed her dress and curled up on her side than she was asleep, so deep that not even the nightmare of the past 24 hours could find her.

The Woman was deep enough asleep that she didn't even stir when, a few hours later, Sherlock slipped into the sheets on the other side. He attempted to keep as much distance as possible between them on the rather small bed. Even curled up, his feet stuck off the end, but he did the best he could, and soon enough joined her in a peaceful slumber.


	3. Flaming Passion

Neither of them had thought to draw the curtains in the living room before they went to bed. Although they were closed in the bedroom, the door to the main room was open, and the far corner windows shone though into their sleeping quarters.

Irene had taken the side of the bed closer to the door, so the light woke her first. The tendrils of sun lazily made their way across the floor and up the side of the bed, until they tickled her face with their glowing warmth.

She blinked slowly. The whole world was still warm and fuzzy for a few brief, wonderful moments. Languidly her senses started coming to her, and the realization of where she was hit her, shocking her into a state of full wakefulness.

She took stock of her surrounding in a quick and quiet manner. A small gasp escaped as she remembered that she was not alone. Irene hadn't even heard or felt Sherlock come in during the night. She had no idea how long he had been there, or where he had started on the bed.

But she knew where he was now.

Sherlock was pressed up behind her, wearing only underwear. His arm was draped lazily across her stomach and side, and he had pushed close enough to her that she could feel _all_ of him.

Coils of warmth spread through her. It had been a very long time since she had woken up next to a man. Of course, nothing had ever happened before, and nothing had happened last night, either.

 _What a shame..._

A deep, searing heat pooled within her core, something she fought hard to re-bury. This was Sherlock Holmes. He was sleeping like the dead, and he had absolutely no idea that he had somehow ended up cuddling against her.

 _Or did he?_

She was trapped. If she moved, she would wake him. But if he woke up and found them in this position... Well, she honestly wasn't sure what he would do. More than a small part of her that wanted to find out.

She shifted just a little bit, experimentally, to see if he would react. He made a low, rumbling noise against her ear that sent goosebumps up her arms and warmth flooding to... other places. His arm gently but firmly squeezed her tighter, and he pressed closer- certain areas of his body became _quite_ aware to her. Obviously, this was not a trick. His breathing pattern had not hitched in the slightest, and his eyes had not even remotely fluttered. Sherlock was well and truly asleep. He had no idea what he was doing

But oh, the things he was doing to _her_...

Irene knew that she couldn't stay like this. She needed a cold shower, NOW. The first trick was to untangle herself from his arms. As gently as she could, she lifted her left arm, the one he had buried his own arm under- the one that was dangerously close to... places... and used her other one to lift his draping arm and move it back against his body. He grunted and shifted, but still his eyes stayed closed.

It was a terrible idea, she knew it was, but for a few long moments after she moved his arm, she stayed where she was, not maneuvering away from him yet. She attempted to justify herself by saying that it was to make sure he was still asleep, that she shouldn't withdraw too fast. But she knew better. She didn't want to pull away from the comfort that was Sherlock Holmes. Many long minutes slunk by before she finally willed herself to shift across the bed, away from the pleasant warmth that pressed close behind her.

As carefully as she could, she wiggled away to the far side of the bed and sat up.

Between the movement on the bed, and the lack of heat, Sherlock started to stir. Irene had her chance to get off of the bed and move to the other room before he woke fully, to avoid potential embarrassment. But she instead chose to continue sitting on the edge- her legs over the side, her feet on the floor, but her body twisted to watch his reaction as he awoke.

The Woman enjoyed the fact that time moved infinitely slow when it came to waking up Sherlock Holmes. In his sleep he had been aware of a warmth, a comforting pressure. Without it, he was shaken enough be roused into a state of semi-awareness.

Like a cat, he yawned wide and stretched, his lanky legs going off the end of the stunted bed. Light finally filtered through closed eyelids, and they slowly opened.

Oh, how she just wanted to say "Good morning" and make him aware of her presence. But she was patient, and she waited.

Everything was hazy, and he blinked a few times to bring his world into focus. Peach skin, white fabric, dark hair.. blood red lips...

And suddenly everything fell into place.

"Good morning." She finally purred.

His eyes went wide and he bolted up quickly. The warmth he had felt, the movement that had woken him, his current.. _state_... it was quite obvious to him what had been going on. Of course, he would never apologize.

"Taking advantage of a poor, tired man after he saved your life? How positively sinister." His eyes thinned and he smiled in an almost predatory way.

 _Wait._ She thought. _Was he... enjoying this?_

She cocked an eyebrow, her smile smug. "I was in bed first. You were the one who **pressed** into me." That word was stressed, and he understood.

"I take it you hated every moment." His eyes met hers, in a steely gaze.

This was a dangerous game to play, and they both knew it. There had been tension that night in 221B, but this was different. This was palpable, moving beyond playful banter into something much more perilous.

Several times they had touched the night before, and each time there was a spark of... _something_ between them, a spark that was quickly turning into a flame... arriving at the point of no return.

This was it, she thought, the threshold . She was going over the falls and taking him with her, and nothing was going to stop them now.

"And... what if I said that I hadn't?' She almost growled at him.

The fact that Sherlock gave her was worth the risk of asking the question. In the space of a couple of heartbeats, she watched him go from slightly surprised, to thoughtful, and finally to amused. A slow, creeping smile filled his face. "You didn't."

She had no response. She shrugged slightly and gave him a feline grin. She studied him intently, attempting to read his body language. She couldn't deduce as well as the detective in the funny hat, but she could see his relaxed manner. He was sitting up, the sheets gathered around his waist enough that she couldn't tell if the previously... _awakened_ parts of him had calmed down or not. Irene surprised herself to find she really wanted to know.

As much as she was watching him, she could tell that Sherlock was doing the same to her. It fascinated her, and she had to admit, was rather sexy. Irene was so used to having idiot clients that only wanted their libidos satisfied. But Sherlock- he was different. He satisfied her mind, as well as her body.

The silence and tension hung thick between them. The room heated up, not just from the sun continually filling the room. Irene had started a contest of wills, and now it was a game of chicken to see who was going to make the next move, to see who would flinch first.

Irene upped the ante, swinging her legs back onto the bed so she was sitting next to him, only centimeters separating their bodies now. He could feel her warm breath on his bare shoulder, raising the lightest dusting of goosebumps his pale skin. Without a word, his hand shot out.. He wrapped his large hand around her wrist and laid two fingers across her pulse point. Her eyes went wide, but she stayed still and quiet for what seemed like a lifetime.

"Ah." He finally rumbled, his voice low and husky. Quickened pulse, dilated pupils, a fine sheen of sweat on your brow." Sherlock kept his hand where it was, slightly tightening his grip as he slyly shifted his body closer to hers. His broad shoulder brushed against her arm, sending a shiver of pleasure up her spine. She tried to cover by shifting slightly, but his eagle eyes didn't miss a thing, and his smile become downright ravenous.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Oh, I think that has already been achieved, Ms. Adler."

Instead of responding, she let actions speak for her. She leaned in, brushing her lips lightly against his cheek. Irene smiled internally when she heard the slightest hitching of his breath, it would have been imperceptible to anyone who wasn't giving him their full attention. But she definitely had his in spades right now.

"Has it now?" She whispered in his ear, punctuating it with a light nip at the bottom of his lobe. She was surprised when that garnered the softest, tiniest little groan. _Oh, so he likes to have his ears nibbled, hmm?_ She thought to herself, filing that away in the back of her mind. This could come in handy later.

Sherlock's hand came up to her cheek. Softly but firmly, he turned her head to him and leaned in. Heat sparked when their lips met. No more pretense. The dam broke. His hands ran up the silky smoothness of her slip, gathering the material under his fingers. She had much less to worry about, he was naked to the waist, and she had unmitigated access to his smooth alabaster skin. She took full advantage of this- running the her fingertips over his pectoral muscles and down his wiry, muscled arms.

Eventually they had to come up for air. Their lips parted, and they looked at each other in a new light. This had been smoldering between them since their first meeting. Sherlock pressed his hands to her shoulders, resolutely pushing her back towards the bed. For a moment, she resisted. She knew what was going to happen, they had jumped off the edge of the world and they were falling, falling, falling into the abyss. It didn't take much perseverance before she acquiesced and lay back, and was rewarded by feeling his body on hers, pressing through her thin layer of fabric, she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, breathing in time with hers.

Lips crashed together again. Hands moved over breasts and hips and to lower places. Irene wasn't even sure how or when her slip and underwear were removed- nor did she care. She could feel his arousal against her thigh through his cotton underwear, rubbing in a soft gentle rhythm, so close, yet so far. His hands went to the dark curls between her legs. He gently spread her thighs and explored- tentatively at first, but he was a quick learner. Every little moan that she made, every time her body went stiff when he brushed against a certain part of her, he filed it in The Woman's room in his mind palace.

A new scent filled the room, and it was intoxicating to her. It filled her nose and addled her brain and made the whole world fuzzy and warm. "You have too many clothes on." Her voice, almost gravelly, broke him out of his haze. Begrudgingly he pulled his fingers away from her, eliciting a disappointed sigh. It was a necessary evil. He pushed his underwear down and kicked them off. Finally, it was nothing but skin against skin.

Sherlock leaned up on his elbows and gave her the most evil smile. He used the fact that he was on top to his advantage. Now that there was nothing separating them, he pushed his body against her, grinding himself against her inner thighs, against her nether regions, teasing her, sending her spiraling down into pleasure.

Her hand reached between his legs and gripped him tight, which made him stop what he was doing and give her a slightly questioning look. "I'm not hungry. Let's have dinner." She leaned up and whispered in his ear, giving the bottom of his lobe a nibble and a slight tug. Without even waiting for a response, she arched her hips and positioned him against her. He smiled down- this evil temptress, this heartless dominatrix, this bewitching woman. The Woman. It only took one little roll of his hips to press into her- two bodies melding into one unit, moving and writhing in time with each other.

It was the oldest dance in the world, two people in a run down hotel in a run down city with the world moving around them. But for them, the universe began and end with this moment, in this place, nothing but sight and smell and taste and touch. The rest of the cosmos fell away to nothingness, and soon, so did they.


	4. Kindled Feelings

Sherlock found himself wandering the streets of London in the late evening. The sun had fallen below the horizon, and the lights of the city twinkled in the warm purple sky. Irene had walked back into his life after over half a decade of nothing but the occasional text and dropped a bomb in his lap. After her announcement he couldn't stay in the flat. He had to get out. The walls felt like they were closing in on him. For the first time ever, 221B Baker Street no longer felt like home- He felt trapped, so he ran.

He couldn't even repeat the words out loud.

 _'Because he is our son. Your son.'_

That day in India. The sexual tension had been unbearable that morning. When it finally broke, it was with a vengeance. They hadn't left the room all day- they ordered room service and alternated between making love and sleeping for the entirety of the day, with a couple of breaks for food. She had just finished her cycle a couple of days before, and knew that the week after it ended was the least fertile time for a woman. They had both thought it was safe.

And yet, here he was. His world had just been turned upside down. He had...

He couldn't even say it.

Without even realizing it, he had wandered over 3km, across The Regent's Park, heading north and east to the row homes close to Talacre Gardens, until he was standing outside John's flat. By the time he got there, night had already fallen. He knew Rosie would be asleep, and there was a decent chance John was as well. He tended to go to bed early unless they were on a case. Taking care of a 6 month old would wear anyone out, but being a single father meant that between his job and his daughter, sleep was a welcome rarity for the doctor.

Sherlock shook his head. He wouldn't chance waking John. And besides, he was still trying to wrap his head around what The Woman had told him. What would he even tell John?

So many questions went through his head. Had she thought about not keeping the child? Had it been a hard pregnancy? Did she regret having him? Were there complications? What did he look like? Was he smart? When did he walk? When did he talk? When did he start to read and write? Did they live in Italy? Did he speak Italian? Sherlock tried to shake all those thoughts away. His questions had moved from curiosity about Ms. Adler to a father's questions about a son that he had not known about until an hour ago.

He couldn't be a father. He wasn't like John Watson. He enjoyed when Rosie visited, but he had never changed a diaper, and he had hardly ever even given her a bottle. He had always left those things up to John. He knew nothing about children. And this kid was already over 5. He had lived half a decade with no father, and he assumed that the child was fine with that. It was all he knew, after all.

As he walked, his mind was a blur, making lists of the pros and cons of donating a kidney. The medical field was not a strong point of his, and he regretted that he couldn't pick John's brain for more information, but he knew how dangerous donating a kidney would be. Besides any issues or complication during and after surgery, he knew that there would have to be lifestyle changes. There was a good chance that he might not even be eligible, given his past drug use.

The more he ticked down each list, the stronger the conclusion came that the risks far outweighed the benefits for donating a kidney.

But then those words came back to him.

 _'Because he is our son. Your son.'_

This is a child he had never seen, never heard about until a couple of hours ago. He had no familial or sentimental attachment to this boy.

 _And yet..._

And yet, there was no reason for Irene to lie about this child being his. If he really was his father, then how could he not save his life?

Sherlock decided he would go with The Woman to Rome and donate a kidney if he could, but afterwards he would come back to London and only have occasional contact with The Woman. There was no need to upend the child's life now if he was used to not having a father, right?

He turned around and headed towards Prince of Wales Road, where he'd get a taxi back to his flat. He could try to put it off as long as possible, but he was going to have to go back and face her eventually. Might as well get it over with.

The taxi seemed to move in slow motion. He went over the exact conversation over and over in his mind, taking in every nuance of her voice, every shift of her body language. She had risked so much coming to see him. He must have been her very last hope, or she wouldn't have done it. But he still couldn't come to terms with the fact that she had a son, a son that she would endanger her own safety and possibly her life for.

When the taxi pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock was surprised that there were no lights on in the flat any more. Perhaps she had left, he thought. He threw what he assumed was enough bills at the driver and made his way up the steps, two at a time. Had she taken his swift departure as a sign that he wasn't going to help her? Part of him was relieved that she might have left, but if he was the child's only hope, and she was gone, then was the kid's fate sealed? His stomach dropped. Was he going to be responsible for the death of her son?

 _His son?_

The living room was dark. He sighed and ran a hand through his dark curls. He typed a quick text to Irene.

 _Back at Baker Street. We need to talk._

While he waited for a response, Sherlock headed to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. He sank into his all too familiar chair and tried to read, but he couldn't concentrate. His mind was almost 1500km away, in a random room in a random hospital, where a boy lay dying.

Sherlock sighed, got up, put the book on the table and his still full cup in the sink and headed back towards his room. There had been so response from The Woman, he assumed her phone was off.

He was bone tired and weary, but not sleepy, his mind was still moving at a million kilometers a second. But he had to try to rest. He would attempt to text The Woman tomorrow again to see if she was still in town. She said didn't say when she was going to leave, so perhaps he still had time. Maybe he could still save a life.

As he stepped through the threshold of his bedroom door, he paused. Once again, The Woman was asleep in his bed. This was the second time she had been able to do this, which both intrigued and annoyed him. Apparently he was going to get the answers that he wanted, but they could wait until the morning. If he was exhausted from the stress of the day, he could only imagine how she felt. He would let her sleep.

He paused. A little sliver of light filtered in from his window where the curtains were not quite drawn far enough, and it fell across her face, bathing her in a beautiful golden light. His breath caught. Motherhood had been quite kind to her. She was always quite thin. Even with the years since their last meeting and having a child, she was still quite slender, but more shapely in the hips and fuller in the bosom. Her curves were accentuated, and it brought up feelings that he would have much rather kept buried in the past.

 _Ahh... harder... more..._

 _Bodies pressed tightly against one another..._

 _A sheen of sweat on flushed skin..._

 _Warmth flooding from within..._

Sherlock shook his head violently. Those were not thoughts he needed right now. It would be the worst idea to share the bed, even if there was plenty of room this time, and the precedent had already been set. He silently took the pillow from the other side of the bed, and a blanket that from a footlocker at the end, and went back into the living room. It wouldn't be the first time he had slept on that couch, nor the last.

He settled himself in as best he could, trying to get comfortable. It was hours before he finally fell into a light, fitful sleep.

Xxxxxx

Loud clattering from the kitchen startled Sherlock awake. Immediately he bolted upright, stepped on the table and over it, taking a few long strides towards the middle of the room where he could see the kitchen- and Irene Adler, using what few items he had left in the fridge to attempt to make them breakfast.

"Oh, you're finally up." She gave him a soft smile. "I figure we have some things to discuss before I leave for Rome. I need to stop by my hotel for my bags, but my flight isn't until the afternoon, so I have some time." He looked out the window. By the angle of the sun, which he still couldn't see over the buildings of London, he figured it was about 7AM.

He flopped into a chair in the kitchen and watched her work. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if she had always been this domesticated, or if it had become a necessity when raising a child. "I am coming with you to Rome." he said, wasting no time on pleasantries."But I am not sure it would be prudent at this time to reveal who I am to him. He needs time to recover, and a such a shock may do him more harm than good."

He had thought about many things last night before he had finally found sleep on the living room couch. Earlier in the day, he had thought he wouldn't want to have anything to do with the child after the transplant. He assumed that the doctors would figure out with the testing they had to do that he was the father, but that didn't mean that the child had to know. The more he thought about it, the worse that made him feel. How, when he finally had the chance to see this child that he had never known, could he deny him? Sherlock had no idea how to be a father, or if he even wanted to be one, but he had resolved to cross that bridge when it came to it, after they met face to face.

Irene stopped stirring the eggs for a moment and turned back towards him. "He idolizes Sherlock Holmes." She replied, going back to the cooking. "I don't know how, but he found Doctor Watson's blog. He read every entry, including the two brief mentions that I received. Ever since he found those blogs, he has been obsessed with meeting Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, and has expressed many times that he will grow up to be either a detective or a policeman."

"All the more reason not to tell him right now. He needs to heal after the surgery." It sounded like justification in his head, and maybe it was, but he clung to that for now.

Irene didn't answer. She just continued to stir the eggs.

The breakfast was mostly silent. Sherlock barely touched the eggs. He had half a piece of toast and a few bites of beans, but that was about it. When it was obvious he wasn't going to eat any more, Irene took the plates and washed them in the sink. Sherlock had noticed that since he had said he was going to Rome, her whole body immediately relaxed. The relief was written on her face, plain as day. "You should get packed for at least a week, maybe two. If you are able to donate, you will be in the hospital for a while."

Sherlock nodded and got up, heading back to his room. He dragged a suitcase from his closet and started to throw the necessities in haphazardly. If he was in the hospital, he wouldn't need much in the way of clothes, he figured. But he did throw in his laptop, a few books, and some other sundries, then closed it up and took out his phone, tapping out a quick text to John.

 _Have a big case in Italy. Will be gone at least a week. Give Rosie a big hug from me. Don't tell Mycroft. SH_

Less than a minute later, he got a response.

 _Be careful and text me if you need any help. I won't say anything, but you know how Mycroft is. He is persistent, if anything. I'm sure Rosie will miss you. JW_

Sherlock smiled and put his phone away. John always cared about others more than himself. They both knew he couldn't just up and get a flight to Rome if there was an issue, and yet, he knew that if push came to shove, John would do anything he could to get there if he was truly needed.

The detective rolled his suitcase out into the living room, not surprised in the least that The Woman was ready to go.

"Alright." He said. "Let's go."

A quick cab ride later, Sherlock waited in the car while Irene quickly packed the few things that she had brought and came back down.

"Heathrow, Terminal 4." She turned to Sherlock when they were on their way. "I assume you have your passport, Mr. Pennyworth?"

He smirked at her. "Of course, Mrs. Pennyworth." He patted his coat pocket. "Never leave London without it." It had been 6 years since they had had to use these credentials, when they posted as a newly married couple in India. My, how times have changed, he thought.

Mid morning traffic made a thirty minute ride closer to an hour. But they had plenty of time, they took no chances on missing their flight. It was a quiet voyage, mostly comfortable but a bit awkward. Neither of them quite knew what to talk about. It had been less than 24 hours since Sherlock's whole world had changed, and he was still trying to come to terms with what this meant. And soon, he would actually see this child... _his son_... and the detective knew that his universe would be turned upside down yet again.

Sherlock spent most of the two and a half hours inside his mind palace, trying to imagine every possible scenario of how this first meeting would go. It never seemed to end well, though. With Rosie, he had been there since she'd been born, and he was used to her- her sounds, her moods, her likes and dislikes. Now, he had no baseline to start with, no idea how the child would look, or act, or if they would even get along.

He felt something that he only remembered feeling one time in his past, many years ago when he and John were chasing down demon dogs in the moors. He felt doubt. He was unsure of himself. He couldn't trust his feelings because he wasn't even sure what to feel.

The sun was starting to dip in the sky, bathing the plane in a fiery orange hue as it touched down at Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport. The impact of the wheels hitting the tarmac jolted Sherlock out of his mind palace and back to the present. He looked over to The Woman, who was nervously fiddling with her fingers. She was quite anxious, one didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that out.

Irene paced restlessly as they went through customs. All the time, Sherlock watched the sun set in the tall windows of the terminal. He was always fascinated watching a city come alive at night. First a few street lights twinkled, then the buildings, the signs and the car headlights, piercing the darkness with ten thousand points of light. It felt like an old city was replaced with a new one, with it's own life and heartbeat. Even in his beloved London, he never got tired of watching it blossom into its nighttime colors.

Finally, they got through customs, picked up their luggage, and caught a cab. "Bambino Gesu." She said quickly to the cabbie, and in a moment, they were off, towards the relentless, hectic, nonstop center of Rome.

If Sherlock thought the traffic patterns and cars in London were crazy, he wasn't even remotely prepared for how reckless and wild people drove in Rome. Traffic lights were suggestions, cars weaved in and out of lanes to get a few car lengths ahead. His knuckles were white for the entire 30 minutes that it took to get to the hospital. He had only been to Rome once, on a family holiday when he was a child, so he didn't recognize any landmarks. It was all a fast, bright blur. By the end of the whirlwind drive he was beginning to think he might need to be admitted to the hospital as well.

The building had to be at least 100 years old, like most of the structures around it. He had expected something new and modern, but this looked like a hodgepodge of arctitecture cobbled together to make one large unit.

"Grazie mille." She paid the cab driver with enough Euros and then stood beside him in front of the doorway to the hospital. They gathered their two small rolling cases and went inside.

Sherlock's felt like his stomach was going to lurch up and out any time now He fought back a wave of nervous nausea. This was it, the moment of truth. He was about to meet his son. Every step felt like lead, like he was moving in slow motion. He followed a few steps behind The Woman, who didn't even stop at the front desk. They took a few turns, rode an elevator up to the second floor, then turned a couple more times, before she stopped in front of a small door.

Irene turned to him when she twisted the doorknob and started to go in, but he didn't immediately follow. He took one deep breath, then a second, and stepped into the room behind her.

"Sherlock, this is Nero William Adler.

Your son."


	5. Inflamed Loyalty

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. The child was unconscious, covered to the chest in a sheet, with all manner of tubes in his arm, nose and throat. An IV stand dripped clear liquid into one of the tubes, while monitors beeped and whirred softly on either side of the bed. The poor child looked so tiny with all of the machinery and equipment around him. As he took a step closer, his heart seemed to stop for a moment.

 _He looks just like me..._

Nero, the child, was almost a mirror image of Sherlock as a child. He had unruly, dark curly hair, high cheekbones, a long, thin neck. He could see his mother in him too, though. He had her small nose (Thank goodness he hadn't inherited that hawk-like Holmes nose, the thought), her perfectly proportioned ears, her soft, rounded chin.

While Sherlock took him in, Irene walked quickly to her son's side, pulling up a chair and taking his hand. She gently ran her hand through his hair with her other hand, and leaned up to kiss him on the forehead. "Nero, sweetheart. I'm back. I think we found someone who can donate a kidney, so you'll be better soon." The child didn't stir, but The Woman kept whispering to him, giving his tiny little hand a squeeze every time she stopped talking.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure his legs could carry him any more. He stumbled over to a chair in the corner and slumped down, his suitcase forgotten by the doorway.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He nodded softly. "Yes. I'm just... processing."

She smiled and turned back to Nero, giving him another soft kiss on the forehead.

A son... _His son_... was laying here, dying. Sherlock's blood ran cold, a terrible possessiveness came over him as he looked at the small child in the giant bed.

 _My son. I need to save my son._

Any doubt that Sherlock Holmes ever had that he was going to be involved in this child's life, _his son's life_... disappeared into nothingness when he stepped into that room.

Time lost all meaning, evening slipped away into late night. Eventually even Irene had to sleep, still clutching her son's hand, sitting upright in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Then it was just him, with the hum of the machines, the rhythmic beeps that assured him that, at least for now, Nero was safe.

Sherlock's eyes stayed transfixed on the bed.. on _his child._ He had never felt like this before. He had been scared for John plenty of times when he was in danger or injured, but it hadn't been this intense. It was so fierce, so overwhelming. He felt like a caged lion, ready to strike out at anyone who dared come too close. This wasn't something he was used to. Other people had these feelings. He knew John did when it came to Rosie. Sherlock was protective of John's daughter, but this was something different.

He knew what it was, but it was so hard to say that one little four letter word.

Sherlock took a deep breath, rose to his feet, and for the first time, approached the bed.

"Hello, Nero." His voice was low, hesitant. "You don't know me. I hope you will get to soon. I want to help you. If the doctors tell me I can, I 'm going to donate a kidney, so you can get well and grow up and hopefully drive your mother nutty." He smiled warmly over at Irene, still deep in slumber.

"I... it's amazing, you look so much like me when I was your age." His hand shook slightly when he reached out and touched those tight, dark curls. To his surprise, the child stirred, but went still again after a moment. "I have so many questions. Are you smart? When did you walk? When did you talk? What was your first word? Can you read and write? Do you speak Italian like your mother? I've... missed so much of your life so far. There's no way I can make up for that. But I want this to be a starting point... for us. "

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I will do everything I can to protect you. In the past, I said that I'd only ever make one vow, but I'm making another. I will kill for you. I will die for you. I will do anything in my power to keep you safe. I swear it."

He walked back over to the chair in the corner, almost falling into it. Normally his vessel could go without sleep for a time, but the events of the day had drained him, mentally and physically, and soon he found himself drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

Xxxxxx

Sherlock awoke the next morning to voices in the room. One was clearly Irene's and the other was much deeper, a male speaking in English with a heavy accent. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes- when he did, the conversation stopped, and they both looked at him.

"Mr. Holmes, my name is Doctor Giorgio Rossi. I am Nero's primary doctor." Sherlock groggily got up and shook his hand." I want you to know that what you are doing is very heroic. If you are able to donate, you'll save his life. I think we should start the testing as soon as we can, today if at all possible."

"That's fine. I agree. I'm ready when you are."

Doctor Rossi nodded. "Before we start, though, I need to inform you of how the testing and procedure will go, and what both you and Nero might expect afterwards. I think it would be best to go to my office to do this."

Sherlock looked over to Irene. She quite obviously didn't want to leave Nero's side, but she needed to be part of this as well. She nodded her head to his unspoken question. He, in turn, nodded to the doctor.

"Good. Follow me please."

Even for a man with an eidetic memory, there was a lot of information to take in. The doctor was very thorough, going through each step one at a time, and answering questions, mostly from Irene. A simple blood test was first. If he and Nero didn't match, there was no need to go further. If they did, then more blood tests, a physical, urine samples, an EKG, a CT scan, and a chest x-ray followed to make sure they were enough of a match that there would be little chance of rejection. If all of that went well, then came the surgery itself.

The doctor explained the surgery. It usually took about 4-5 hours, and the recovery time was usually around ten days, though it could be less for the donor and/or more for the recipient. After donating a kidney, his life wouldn't change much. He would need more tests and more doctors visits every year, and would need to be careful to protect his remaining kidney from damage, but there was no major lifestyle change required.

Then, he talked about Nero's recovery. Sherlock knew he would have to take immunosupressants every day for the rest of his life to avoid rejection, but that was the easy part. There would be daily tests, catheters, physical therapy, no places with crowds of people for at least a month, no travel for at least 3 months, frequent hand washing, adequate fluid intake, regular toiletry schedules, a change in diet and exercise, sun sensitivity, more fatigue, more chance for simple wounds to be infected. And through all that, the kidney that he'd donate would only last a decade or two, then Nero would have to do this all over again.

It was a lot to take in, for both of them. Somewhere in the conversation, Sherlock reached over and took Irene's hand, giving it a little squeeze. Throughout all of this, she was putting on a brave face, but he knew better, he could read her emotions. She was as scared as he was. She was trying not to cry, but he could see the redness, the puffiness, she was on the verge of breaking down. Somehow, though, she made it through.

When the doctor was done, he answered a few more questions, then opened the door to his office and said that a nurse would be in Nero's room later for Sherlock's blood draw to start the testing.

It was an impossibly long and slow and silent walk back to the room. When they got there, Irene took her place back at Nero's side, holding his hand and gently running her long, slender fingers through his hair. Sherlock took the seat in the corner and went to his mind palace. He wanted to catalog everything, if the worst should happen. He made a new room, right next to The Woman, a smaller door with an Italian flag on it, and under it, the name ' _Nero_ '.

A nurse came by about half an hour later. It took less than 2 minutes for her to draw blood. Although she didn't speak English, communication was not an issue. Sherlock spoke to her in fluent Romanesco Italian, which impressed her. He used his charms and her fascination with him to make her promise to speed up the blood test as much as she could.

Sherlock knew his blood type was O, the universal donor, so this first test was just a formality. It was the rest of the exams that would determine what would happen next. He had been doing some research online the night before, and had found a lot of good resources about kidney transplants. He drank in the information like a sponge, determined to know as much as he could to help Nero through this.

The nurse came back less than an hour later, explaining in Italian that he was type O positive, and that Nero, interestingly enough, was as well. That didn't increase the chances he was going to be able to donate, but it was an interesting fact for him to file away in his mind palace, if he ever needed it again.

Once again, the nurse took Sherlock away, this time for two more blood tests- tissue typing and cross-matching. He was informed that the results could take until tomorrow. There was nothing to do now, but wait.

The day crawled along- seconds feeling like hours, hours feeling like days. Neither Irene nor Sherlock slept much that night. These tests were the last major hurdle to determining if he could donate a kidney to save his son's life. The rest of the tests would be precautionary, to make sure his body was healthy enough. Despite his drug issues in the past, he kept himself in relatively good shape, and was not worried about the outcome.

They were both awake when Doctor Rossi knocked lightly on the door and came in early the next morning. Sherlock observed that the doctor looked like he was in a good mood, twice he looked down at the clipboard he was carrying and then back to them again.

"Buongiorno. I have the results from the tests yesterday, and they are quite good." He smiled and looked down for a moment, flipping papers up and down before looking back up. "Tissue typing involves matching 6 antigens, or markers. The more markers the donor and recipient share, the better the match. Since you get 3 markers from your mother, and three from your father, we always assume there will be at least a 3 of 6 from a parent. Sometimes it is higher, though we rarely see a 6 of 6 except from a sibling. You matched 4 of 6, which is very good."

The doctor paused for a moment, checked his papers again, then continued. "The other test is cross-matching. If it's positive, that means the recipient's body would would attack the new kidney and it would not be a viable donation." The world seemed to slow for a moment- one heatbeat became a million. "But your cross-match was negative. This means we can continue to the second round of examinations. These will take a few days, and there will be other blood tests as well, but barring anything surprising, it is looking quite likely that you will be able to donate your kidney."

Two long, sighing breaths let out at the same time. "Thank you so much, Doctor. That is great news." Irene positivly beamed. Sherlock felt the room lighten, like the curtains that had been pulled were suddenly thrown open.

"We'll start the tests this afternoon. Please have a healthy lunch and if you can, get a little rest. It will help us get more accurate results." And with that, he turned and left.

Sherlock got up, looking over to The Woman. "I suppose I should try to eat then." He said with a small smile. "Do you want anything?" She shook her head. "Alright. I'll be back soon." He headed out the door- he wasn't really hungry, his stomach was still in knots over this whole situation. Doctor's orders, though, he thought as he headed down to the hospital cafeteria. They were now one step closer to saving Nero's life.

His mind wandered as he headed down the stairs, back to London, and John. He could hear his doctor fussing over him, insisting that he eat and drink plenty to stay healthy if he was going into surgery. He could imagine the pride in John's voice at donating an organ to save a life, and the gentle teasing he was going to endure at the fact that he was now a father as well.

It brought a smile to Sherlock's face that stayed the entire day.


	6. Blazing Love

Over the next three days, Sherlock endured a battery of tests. The only issue the doctors brought up was that his lungs were slightly damaged from years of smoking. Despite the fact that he had done drugs in the past, there was- surprisingly- no heart, kidney, or venous issues. His prior drug use had almost stopped the process in its tracks.

Sherlock explained he had been clean for about 3 months, and submitted to various urine, blood, and hair samples that all came out negative. As much as he was loathe to do so, he explained at least part of what had been happening in his life months ago, and how such drastic life changes- including being a godfather and now a father,- showed him that he needed to make major alterations in his life. He made clear that he was in the process of doing so. He gave them contact information for John Watson, Greg Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, all whom he knew could corroborate his story.

Unfortunately, this did slow the process, but everything checked out, including the second blood test for antigens and cross matching. Nothing else stood in his way now. He was cleared to donate his kidney. The surgery was scheduled for the next morning. Sherlock was officially admitted into the hospital the same day, and given his own room. Luckily, there was one only a few doors down from Nero, on the same hallway.

Despite the fact that after almost a week, he finally had a bed- albeit a hospital bed- he got no sleep that night. He watched the stars twinkle in the sky from his large hospital window, the lights of the town illuminating the night. Rome was a town that never slept. Even in the deepest, darkest parts of the pre-dawn hours, the streets still bustled. 'The Eternal City' was still alive.

Sherlock had mostly been keeping his phone off during his stay, though he made sure to check it a couple times a day. He had gotten a couple of texts from John, making sure he was alright, to which he responded that he was. And that he didn't need his help. He was surprised it took Mycroft six days of no contact to finally get in touch with him. There had been a couple of missed calls, then a text.

 _You disappeared, brother mine. John has been tight lipped on your whereabouts._

A little flash of pride filled Sherlock. He could always count on his blogger. He sent a text back.

 _I am in no danger. Leave me alone._

Sherlock sighed and turned off his phone, knowing that a return text meant that Mycroft would immediately try to call him again. He put his phone on the table beside him, and once again stared out the window at the bustling metropolis below.

Slowly but surely, the first tendrils of daylight crept over the city, washing it in beautiful hues of red and yellow and orange. And still the city went on, ever moving, ever living. It was utterly fascinating- he had spent almost all of his life in and around London, and here was a town that was just as vibrant, just as exciting as his beloved capital.

A knock on the door tore him away from his thoughts. " Buongiorno." It was Doctor Rossi. "Are you ready for your surgery?"

 _As much as anyone can be ready for a surgery..._

Sherlock nodded his head and the doctor smiled. "Nero is already being prepped. I'm going to introduce a drug into your IV. I want you count backwards from 20." He watched as a liquid dripped to the IV on his side. Because of his past drug use, the nurse had seen his track marks. It had made it harder to find a vein- they had to poke him a couple of times, but eventually they were successful.

"20... 19... 18... 17.. 16... 15... 14... 13... 12..."

And then there was no more.

Xxxxx

Consciousness came slowly.. Sherlock's eyes felt like they were glued shut. Light filtered through his lids, so it wasn't nighttime yet. He groaned, then started to take stock. He could wiggle his toes and his fingers, move his arms and legs. His brain was light and fluffy, like everything had a haziness to it, a thick London fog. He was only able to fight his brain for a few minutes, then the darkness overtook him again.

The second time he came to, it was bit more of a shock. He gasped, and reflexively tried to sit up, which was a terrible mistake. Searing hot pain tore through his gut, up and down his side. He cried in pain, loud enough that a nurse burst through the door and immediately started yelling at him in a quick, harsh Italian.

Through the haze of drugs and pain, he could only make out a couple of words...

"Punti stappati..." T _orn stitches_

"Emmorragia..." _Bleeding_

Out of the corner of one barely cracked eyelid, he watched a nurse push a fluid from a syringe into his PIC line, and once again, he was enveloped in the inky blackness of sleep.

By the time he woke up the third time, it was dark outside. The pain in his lower torso had faded to a dull ache. He could sense the dimness around the edges, he knew he was pretty well drugged up- which worried him. The last thing he needed was to have his senses dulled by morphine, or worse, to crave it even after the pain faded. The machine doling out the medicine was too far away for him to lower the dosage. He was at their mercy, it seemed.

His first thought, as he finally gathered his wits, was Nero. How was he? Had it been a success? He didn't want to use the nurse call button, since it wasn't an emergency, but his stomach tied up and his heart pounded in his chest. He had no way of contacting The Woman, who was only a few doors away, probably worrying about her son, sitting as his bedside.

As it turned out, he didn't have to use the call button. His anxiousness raised his heart rate, which set off an alarm at the nurse's station. A few moments after waking up, the same nurse as before came running in again, yelling at him in Italian.

"Cosa fai? Hai ferisi di nuovo?" _What are you doing? Did you injure yourself again?_

"Mi dispiace. Sono preoccupado per il bambino." _I'm sorry. I am worried about the child._

"Cerchero di trovare alcune informazioni per voi." _I will try to find some information for you._

"Grazie mille." The nurse left, still in a bit of a huff. Sherlock tried to relax, but even with the drugs coursing through him, he felt antsy and anxious. He wanted to get up and pace around like he always did when he was thinking. That was out of the cards, for now at least.

A short time later, Doctor Rossi knocked on the door, then stepped inside. "Mr. Holmes, are you awake?" he asked softly.

"I am."

He walked in and took a seat next to Sherlock. "I was told you wanted an update on Nero's condition. "He's doing well. He still under anesthesia for now to give him time to heal."

Sherlock let out a long breath, his whole body untensing, like a sprung coil.

"There were no complications. The surgery took just under five hours. For now, Nero is back on dialysis until we are sure his kidney is functioning properly. That is standard procedure. He's recovering in the ICU now, but as long as he does well, he should be out tomorrow and back to his room. He still has a long way to go, but he has passed the first large hurdle. Now we will let him rest and recuperate while we monitor him closely."

"Thank you, doctor. I'm very glad to hear that."

"I heard you opened your stitches." The smile faded slightly from the doctor's face.

"I'm sorry about that. I awoke quickly, and I tried to sit up. I paid the price."

"I must ask you to please be very careful, especially for the next week while your stitches heal. Move gently and slowly. You don't want the incision to get infected."

Sherlock shook his head. "Definitely not."

Doctor Rossi smiled at Sherlock, then got up. "Good. You need your rest as well. I will speak to you again tomorrow. Buona notte. Goodnight."

Less than fifteen minutes later, Irene Adler walked through the door. She looked haggard, she had bags under her eyes and her skin was pale and drawn. Despite all of that, she had a smile on her face.

"I wanted to make sure you were alright." She said, as she took a seat next to him, drawing his large hand into her soft, delicate one. "Nero is doing well, all things considered..." Her voice trailed off. Sherlock knew her mind was far away, in the ICU.

"I got an update from Doctor Rossi. It sounds like everything went well. I was glad to hear that." Sherlock spoke quietly.

There was a short silence. Neither of them knew quite what to say. It felt nice, Irene holding his hand. Even on the day of passion they had shared together, there were no signs of affection, like holding hands or a gentle kiss on the cheek.

Finally, Irene spoke again. "Thank you. You've given him a second chance. I... can never repay you for what you've done for him... and for me." She gave his hand a little squeeze.

"He... is..." Sherlock gulped, his throat tightening. "He's my son... I would do anything for him." It was the first time he had been able to string those two words together.

 _My son._

"Thank you for the visit. But I'm sure you want to get back to Nero. Your eyes have been glancing towards the door the entire time you've been here."

"I should be worried about you as well."

"No, you shouldn't. I'm fine. Worry about our son."

Irene stood up, leaned down, and ran her head through his hair while giving him a soft, chaste kiss on the lips. "Good night, Sherlock. I'll come visit again in the morning."

He watched her leave. Sherlock knew he should rest and heal up, but he wasn't the least bit tired. Sadly, he couldn't reach his suitcase with his books, or his laptop. So he closed his eyes and went to his mind palace to build a bigger room for Nero. He was going to see a great deal more of him, which meant he needed a larger expanse for a lot of memories.


	7. Father and Son

When Irene visited the next morning, she arrived with more good news. Nero had been moved back into his regular room less than an hour before. Sherlock ached to see him. But considering his wound had needed to be stitched closed again, he knew he was going to be stuck in this bed for a while. That was about the worst torture you could inflict on the almost constantly mobile Sherlock Holmes- bed rest.

Over the next two days, there wasn't much to report from Irene. Nero was doing fine. He was still sleeping a lot, but when he was awake, he wasn't in too much pain. Sherlock was yearning to meet his son, ask him questions, find out more about who he is.

The days were tortuous. He couldn't get up other than to go to the bathroom, which was a terribly slow and laborious process, given that he had to drag the machine that doled out his pain meds and his IV with him to the door. The books he had brought only lasted him two days. At least his laptop kept his interest for a short itme longer, but even that became boring after staring at the screen for hours at a time.

Mycroft had been bothering him again, becoming more insistent that he get in touch. Sherlock knew 'The British Government' could track him down, and most likely had already, but it touched something deep inside him that his brother actually wanted to hear from him. Of course neither of them would ever admit to such.

It wasn't until the fourth day after the surgery that doctors finally allowed Sherlock to get out of bed and move around. His surgical area was healing well, and the stitches would be coming out soon. The first place he went was Nero's room. Unfortunatly, he couldn't go empty handed. As he walked, one hand drug the contraption that dispensed his meds, the other held onto the IV stand. He wheeled them down the hallway and into Nero's room.

When he opened the door, he was quite surprised to see that Nero was already awake. Two sets of eyes shot to the door as Sherlock entered.

"Sh-sh-Sherlock.. Holmes!" Nero's eyes were as big as saucers. "You're in this hospital too? Did my mummy find you and ask you come?" The detective's heart melted. Nero really did idolize Sherlock Holmes, and the kid had no idea of his parentage. Sherlock decided right then and there that he was going to tell him. He knew The Woman understood that he would have to be told eventually. He deserved to know.

 _And oh God, Nero had his eyes, those light blue ireses with the flecks of green around the edge of the pupils..._

Sherlock smiled. He pulled a seat over to the bed and settled the two items he was schlepping to either side. For a moment, his eyes moved over to Irene. She was sitting quietly, one hand on the bed, and the other holding Nero's hand. She looked at him, curious as to what he was going to say. She nodded almost imperceptivly, silent consent.

"Not exactly." He said. "Your mother, she told me that you've read Doctor Watson's blogs. She upset some people in London, and she's not exactly welcome there. But she risked her safety to come find me and tell me you needed help."

"You... you were the donor?"

"Yes, I was."

The silence stretched on for ages.

"I..." Tears welled up in the boy's eyes. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to hug him tight and comfort him, like a father would a son. But he hesitated, and Irene gently put her arms around Nero, kissing his forehead and wiping the wetness from his eyes.

"I'm glad I was able to help you, Nero."

He sniffled once. "You... know my name too?"

Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle. "Of course I do. It sounds like you're my number one fan." Nero's face brightened until it was all smile.

"But... of all the people to go to, why Sherlock, mummy?" Sherlock heard her breath catch. He was, indeed a very smart boy, for being just under six years old. The deduction skills ran deep in their family, it seemed.

Irene opened her mouth, but Nero looked to Sherlock, back to his mother, then over to Sherlock again. He studied the detective's face for what seemed like forever. His eyes moved around, taking in every feature, until Nero's eyes finally went wide, his whole body tensing."He's... my father, isn't he?"

Two jaws hit the floor. "Y-y-es.." Irene stammered after a few moments. "How did you know?"

"I look a lot like him. And I think the same way. I was looking online 'cause I didn't understand how I figured out people. That's how I found Doctor Watson's blog. I read every entry. I knew you knew him. I read everything I could on Sherlock Holmes. It made sense."

Well, he had seen it all now. Outfoxed by a five year old. Sherlock was equal parts impressed, shocked, and simply amazed at this child... _his child_. Nero was as smart, if not even smarter than he had been at that age.

Before Sherlock could respond, Nero looked back to him. "Why... weren't you here before?"

His voice broke, and so did Sherlock's heart. Tears welled in the boy's eyes again. His son was brilliant, but at his core, he was still only a child.

Irene gently stroked those dark curls on the top of his head. "Nero, that was my fault, my love. When I found out I was pregnant, I was on the run, because of what I'd done in London. I was in France at the time. I had no way to contact him. And then, he 'died'." She sighed softly. "I'm sure you read about that. Sherlock went into hiding for 2 years. I had my suspicions that he wasn't dead, but none of my contacts could find him. I followed the news from London as best I could. When there was no information to the contrary, I started to truly believe he had died."

"I was in Switzerland when you were born, and for a long time, my life revolved around raising you. After I heard Sherlock was alive, the first thing I wanted to do was to tell him. But all my contacts in London were lost. I couldn't get into the country, and I had no way to get a message to him. I had my hands full staying on the move so you would be safe."

"You see, my love, it isn't Sherlock's fault. He didn't know until I went to London to find him. I had no other choice. You were dying, and I knew that because he's your father, he'd have a very good chance of being a match for you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "I'm sorry I missed so much. First steps, first words, first day of school. But... if it's okay. I want to be here for the future, as much as I can. When I get back to London, I'm going to talk to my brother to arrange for Irene Adler to come back to life again."

Nero's eyes went wide. "You... mean... I would get to actually **LIVE** at 221B Baker Street?"

Sherlock smiled and looked over to Irene. "As long as your mother agrees to it, then of course you two are welcome at my flat."

Irene shook her head. Sherlock hadn't really left her with much of a choice. He knew that she really couldn't say no and break her child's heart. But he was sure there was a part of her that enjoyed the idea of actually settling down into one place, not constantly being on the move. He wanted to give her that option, to live a normal life. London had been her home many years ago. It could be her home again.

"Let's wait and see what Sherlock's brother can do. Then we'll decide. But I don't think I'd be too averse to it."

"I-I have an uncle, too?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. Mycroft Holmes. Though, admittedly he isn't the best with children, or humans in general, so he might be a rubbish uncle. You also have grandparents. When we get you two settled into London, you can meet them. I know they'll love you. And John has a daughter. Her name is Rosamund, but we call her Rosie. She's 11 months old now. I'm her godfather. I'd love for you to meet her as well, and Mrs. Hudson. She's our landlady, though she's more of a mother figure to John and I. She keeps us straight."

"It sounds like you have a lot of friends in your life.." Nero smiled, and Sherlock responded in kind. It hadn't been that long ago when Sherlock was still under the impression that having friends was a weakness- the fly in the ointment, the grit in the lens. He knew now that Mycroft was wrong, Sentiment is not a weakness. It had saved his life so many times over.

"I'd like to meet all of them. Doctor Watson mentioned Mrs. Hudson in a couple of blogs. He mentioned a person named... Lestrade as well?"

"Oh, yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I've known him longer than I've known John, if you'd believe it. Sometime's he been more of a big brother than my actual big brother. Mycroft and I have a... rather rocky relationship at times. We care about each other, but neither of us are very good at showing it." It was odd to Sherlock, being so open about his life, something he would rarely do. But he wanted Nero to know about his life, as much as he wanted to know about his son's.

Nero looked at his mother. "So, when I get out, can we go to London?"

"Unfortunately, you can't travel for 3 months after your transplant, sweetheart. We also need to make sure that it's safe for us to visit. As soon as both of those things happen, we will talk about visiting London."

"And we'd stay with..." Nero paused.. What was he going to call the detective? Sherlock? Father? Dad? Daddy?

Sherlock understood why he had hesitated. "I know you just met me. If you'd feel more comfortable calling me Sherlock until we know each other a bit better, it's okay. It's up to you, Nero."

A blush came to the boy's cheeks. "I'd... like to call you daddy, if that's okay."

Sherlock felt warmth flooding through him. There was no pain, no fuzzy, drug induced haziness, there was just this moment. His son wanted to call him daddy.. He felt like he could fly. "Yes, of course, that would be wonderful." He smiled and leaned down, and for the first time ever, kissed his son's forehead, making Nero blush even more. Irene and Sherlock shared a look. No words had to be said, their faces spoke volumes. It wasn't normal by any means, but now, they were finally a family.

"Nero, you should get some rest. It's been a pretty exciting day, and you still have a lot of healing to do."

"Awww, do I have to? Will you be here when I wake up?"

"I have to get back to my bed. and rest as well. I promise you I'll visit again later tonight. Maybe we can have hospital dinner together." He gave Nero another kiss. "You listen to your mother and get some rest, ok?"

"Awww, alright."

"Good boy." Sherlock smiled, got up, and carefully maneuvered himself and his medical equipment back out of the room and to his own bed. The Woman was right, it most certainly had been a very eventful day for everyone.


	8. The Longest Goodbye

The detective was good to his word. He visited Nero at least twice a day. Nero continued to heal well, and by the eighth day after the surgery, he was able to come visit Sherlock in his room. The doctors wanted him to do some light walking to keep active, and this fit the bill well.

Most of their days were spent talking about old cases. interesting people and places and things to see and do in London, and general chatter about whatever came to their minds. No matter how long Sherlock was there, he never tired of talking to his son.

On the morning of the eleventh day, Doctor Rossi came in and gave Sherlock the news he had both waited for and dreaded..

"All your blood work checks out. The scar from where your stitches were removed is healing nicely. There are no complications. I'm going to write up your discharge papers. They should be ready by this afternoon. Please make arrangements with your doctor in London, Doctor... Watson I believe, as soon as possible. It's going to be very important that we continue with your blood tests for another month to make sure your kidney is working properly. Afterwards you will only need testing once a year." He offered Sherlock his hand and gave it a warm shake. "Thank you again for your donation. You saved your child's life."

Sherlock smiled warmly back. "Without you and your team, my donation would mean nothing. Grazie mille. Thank you very much." The doctor nodded and left. When he was alone, Sherlock got out of bed, dressed in one of the few changes of clothes he had brought, and headed towards Nero's room.

He knocked softly, sticking his head in, Surprisingly, Nero was still asleep. It seemed a bit late for him to be sleeping, and a knot of worry coiled in his stomach. He looked over to Irene, to judge her mood. She was where she always sat, at his side, holding his hand. But she didn't look particularly worried.

Sherlock walked over to her and gently put his hand on her shoulder. "How is he?" He asked, his face close to her ear. He couldn't help but smirk internally when he saw the small shiver that went down her spine. But now was not the time for that. He quickly straightened up.

"He had a nightmare last night. It took him a long time to go back to sleep." She whispered softly. "He wouldn't tell me what it was about. Maybe he'll tell you when he wakes up."

Sherlock had seen Nero unconscious before, but this was the first time he had simply been asleep. The detective knew he was biased, but he swore Nero looked like an angel from a Renaissance painting. His face was so soft, his features innocent. The detective wanted badly to run his fingers through his hair or give him a soft kiss, but he dared not wake him, so he brought the other chair to the side opposite The Woman and waited.

They didn't have to wait long. Nero soon started to stir, and after a few moments, he blinked his eyes open. "Mummy?" His voice was still slightly gravelly with sleep.

"I'm here, sweetheart." She smiled down at him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "And look who else is here."

"Good morning, Nero." Sherlock smiled softly. The child's eyes went wide, like it was the first time he had seen him. That wonder stayed with Nero every time Sherlock visited his room, and the man never got tired of seeing it.

"Daddy!" No matter how many times Sherlock heard that word, it still sent a warm jolt through his core.

"I'm here. How are you feeling this morning?"

Nero's smile faded, his face darkened. "You're dressed. That means you're gonna leave me."

And his heart _crumbled._

"I have to go back to London. Remember? I need to talk to Mycroft about getting you two back into the UK."

"Can't you do it over the phone and stay here?"

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "This is something I have to talk to him face to face about. He doesn't even know you exist yet. Plus, I have the flat, and my cases. I wish I could stay, but I just can't. I'm very sorry, Nero. I'm going to see you again. It won't be long."

Nero sniffled, hot tears ran down his face."Three months, at least. That's forever." To a child waiting for something, a week would feel like a long time . But three months was an _eternity._

Suddenly, the detective's face brightened. "I'll be right back." Sherlock rushed back to his room, opened up his laptop, and quickly erased most of the information off of it, including all of his browser history. He closed the laptop and brought it and the power cord back into Nero's room, taking his seat next to the bed again.

"I want you to have this. I have another one at home. It already has video conferencing software on it, so we can talk. I can't promise that I'll be available every night, sometimes I'm on a case. We'll set a time, maybe right before you go to bed, and I'll chat with you. I won't be in the room, but we'll still be able to speak face to face."

Nero sniffled and rubbed his nose. "D-d-o you promise?" The hopefulness in his voice made Sherlock feel like he could float out of his chair.

"Of course I do." He smiled warmly. Sherlock looked over to Irene. "When does he normally go to bed?

"7:30 on weekdays, 8:00 on the weekends." She replied. "That will be an hour earlier for you in London."

Sherlock nodded his head. "I have no idea when they're going to release me. That means I'll probably get home late, and I won't be back in time to chat with you tonight, Nero. But I promise, upon pain of death, I will chat with you tomorrow, okay?

It was easy to see Nero was not happy, but he understood. He nodded his head, and Sherlock ruffled his hair softly.

"I'm going to stay in here with you until they release me. I want to spend as long as I can with you until it's time to... " Sherlock's voice drifted off. Neither of them wanted to think about that right now. Nero was silent, staring at his father with large, sad eyes.

Sherlock quickly changed the subject. "Nero, I know your mother said you didn't sleep well last night. Is there something that's bothering you?"

A frown formed on his face. "I... I... had a nightmare that you left... and I never saw you again."

Sherlock felt like glass, shattering and crumbling, piece by piece. "Oh, Nero." He leaned down, running his hand through Nero's hair. "I just found you. I'm not letting you go again. While you were unconscious, the first time I ever saw you, I made a vow that I would protect you. Sorry, kid, you're stuck with me."

That made Nero smile, just the tiniest bit.

Leaving was going to be hard, Sherlock knew it, but he had work to do. He would find a way to get them into London, even if he had to do it himself, and Mycroft be damned.

 **Xxxx**

Doctor Rossi knocked on Nero's door several hours later. Two half eaten trays of hospital lunch sat on a table across the bed, forgotten while Nero and Sherlock excitedly discussed one of his cases. That case had been a solid eight. He'd had to find a missing child from half of a shoe. Irene silently listened, an amused smile on her face.

The doctor cleared his throat to get their attention. The conversation stopped, and they all looked at him.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. Holmes. I was wondering where you wandered off to." He smiled, then handed Sherlock a clipboard with a bunch of papers on it. "If you would please sign these, they are your release papers. Afterwards you're free to go. I need to check on a patient, I'll give you a few minutes to read them over, then I'll be back."

"I'll tell you the rest of the story in a moment, Nero." Disappointment dimmed the boy's eyes, but he softly nodded.

Sherlock took a seat. He spoke Italian well, but he had less practice with the written word, and it took him a bit longer to read it through. It was all the normal medical legalese that made up most forms. He read it through and signed and initialed where he had to. He was just signing the last page when the doctor came back in.

"Excellent timing. I just finished." He put his long, scrawling autograph on the last page and handed it back to Doctor Rossi.

"Grazie. Thank you for your donation." He shook Sherlock's hand once more, then took the clipboard and walked out.

"So... this is it?" Nero asked when he had left, his story about 'The Case of the Half Shoe' had been forgotten.

Sherlock turned around and sat down next to Nero again, taking his hand carefully, so as not to upset the pulse ox meter. "Only for a litle while. As soon as you're better, you'll come to London to live with me on Baker Street."

"Don't go... please."

 _I don't want to. I'm sorry. I leave everyone I care about, but it's for the best reasons. I swear I'm not leaving for good._

The detective's voice broke. "I don't want to. But I have to." He tried to give Nero a hug, but between the angle, the cables and wires, and Sherlock being notoriously bad at hugging, it ended up being more awkward than anything else, so he gave up and gently leaned down, giving Nero a soft kiss on the forehead.

He sighed. This was so much harder than he had expected. "What if I wait until you are asleep, then you don't have to watch me go, would that be better? It won't be good bye. It'll just be good night."

Nero didn't answer, he looked down at his hands and twiddled his fingers, something that Sherlock did when he was upset.

 _He is truly his father's son._

The rest of the day was spent mostly in silence. Nero brooded in his bed - he had his father's sense for the dramatic, and flare for pouting, it seemed _-_ and Sherlock grabbed his few belongings and suitcase from the other room and brought them to Nero's, then booked the last flight of the night from Rome to London.

As afternoon drug into evening, and eventually fell into night, Nero fought as hard as he could to stay awake. It broke Sherlock's heart. The boy's head would dip slightly and his eyes would start closing, then he'd catch himself and quickly jerk his head upright again.

After about thirty minutes of this, Sherlock gently put a stop to it. He ran his hand through Nero's hair and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "Nero, go to sleep. I know you don't want this. I don't either. I'll talk to you tomorrow night on the computer. I swear it."

"No..." Nero's sleepy voice betrayed his denial. Tears welled in the boy's eyes. Sherlock could tell his son knew- this was not good night, this really was goodbye.

"How about I tell you a story that wasn't in John's blog?" Nero didn't respond, but the tenseness in his body lessened slightly.

"It was February in London. Lestrade called me in on what at first sounded like a four or five out of ten. I usually refused to leave the flat for anything under a seven. But I ended up being glad I went."

"It was a locked door mystery, my favorite type of case. Someone had been stabbed to death in their apartment. The door was bolted from the inside. The sliding door to the balcony was locked and a wooden rod was wedged so that no one could pry it open. The police had to crawl across from the apartment beside it and break the glass door to get in."

"I was excited of course, and John, as usual, tried to reign me in. Apparently, it's ' a bit not good' to act like a child at Christmas when examining a murder scene. So I..." his voice trailed off, and he looked down at the bed.

Nero was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep and steady rhythm. As quietly as he could, Sherlock got up and gave his son one last lingering look. He wanted so badly to kiss him one more time, his heart ached to hold his hand or run his fingers through his son's hair, but he resisted.

He gathered his luggage and nodded towards the door to Irene. They moved out into the hallway to say their goodbyes.

"There's nothing to set up, just remember to have that video program running when I call." Sherlock said softly.

Irene nodded. She took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, tenderly.

"Thank you." Her voice was soft and sad. "You saved his life."

"I'm sorry it took this long to finally meet my son." There was the tiniest bite to his words. If he hadn't gotten injured, would she have ever told him about Nero? That was a question for another day, though.

The Woman flinched a little. They both knew she deserved that, and perhaps more, but this was about Nero, not her right now.

"Have a safe trip back."

"I will. I'll talk to you both tomorrow night." Against his better judgement, he leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the lips, lingering there slightly longer than necessary.

"Be well, Irene. Keep care of Nero for me." He didn't wait for a response. Sherlock took one last longing look at the door to Nero's room, then grabbed his rolling case and walked down the hall at a steady pace. His brain was concentrating on moving forward- if he looked back, he would never leave. He didn't stop moving until he was out the front door of the hospital, into the cool Roman night air. He caught the first cab and headed to the airport, trying only to think about the job ahead- bringing Nero home.


	9. Revelations

Sherlock checked the clock on his phone. It was past midnight when the British Airways 747 taxied to a halt at the gate. He'd never been a stickler for sleep, but his own bed was sounding quite appealing right now. He'd made sure to choose a piece of luggage that would fit in the overhead compartment, so he didn't have to bother waiting for the always painfully slow baggage carousels.

As he waited to exit the plane, he switched his phone off of airport mode and was surprised to hear a text tone.

 _Welcome back to London, brother mine. I hope Rome was sufficiently entertaining._

He groaned, running his hand over his face. So Mycroft knew. But how much information had he gleaned?

Sherlock didn't bother answering, but the question of 'what does he know' burned in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft made no further attempts to contact him until Sherlock was through customs and walking through a fairly empty part of the airport, towards the bank of taxis. Then his phone rang.

It was Mycroft. Of course it was. Sherlock sighed, his whole body stiffened. He thought about not answering it, but he knew that would only lead to more trouble down the line. Still, he waited almost until it went to voicemail before clicking the button to connect.

"What is it, Mycroft? I'm tired. I want to get home and rest."

"Yes, you've had a pretty eventful two weeks, haven't you, brother?"

Sherlock's heart sank.

 _Damnit, he knows..._

"I was in Rome, on a case."

"A case, was it?"

"Yes." Sherlock snapped.

"It must have been a case at..." There was a moment's pause while papers shuffled on the other side of the line. "...Bambino Gesu Hospital."

"I was investigating-"

Mycroft cut him off. "Let me guess. Someone lost a kidney, and you had to find it for them?"

Silence.

"You were admitted twelve days ago, and underwent am operation for a kidney donation. And on that same day, a child named..." another shuffle of papers... "...Nero William Adler received a donated kidney."

"Mycroft, I-"

Once again, he was interrupted. "So, Sherlock, when am I going to meet my nephew?"

 _Damn Mycroft and his spying eyes and his powers of deduction._

"I didn't know until two weeks ago. The Woman, she came to see me. She told me her son was dying and I could save him. I deduced why, but it was still a shock." He paused for a moment and licked his dry lips. His voice went low. "Mycroft... he looks so much like me. He's... a genius for his age. He deduced who I was without my telling him."

There was a sigh on the other side of the line. "We were supposed to be the last. Mummy and Daddy assumed the Holmes line would die with us. Now you have a son, an heir by blood, if not by name."

Sherlock knew what his words said and didn't say.

 _He's a Holmes. He must be nurtured and protected. He's one of us._

"I can't just bring them back into England. Irene is a wanted woman. Of course, since you ARE the British Government, you could just make that go away." It was as much a statement as a challenge.

"I could, but that will take some time, and I daresay you called in your last favor quite a while ago."

"This isn't a favor, Mycroft. This is family." He stressed the last words, drawing it out, reminding his brother of what he had said (or not said) a moment before about the family line.

Another sigh. "Go home, Sherlock. I'll be in touch soon." The line went dead before Sherlock could retort. He let out a deep breath and headed to the taxi stand, aching for home even more.

 **Xxxxxx**

The next afternoon, Sherlock wandered around the quiet, empty flat. It had been a habit since after the Sherrinford incident for John and Rosie to visit on Saturday and sometimes Sunday as well. The detective found that in the short time he'd been in Rome, he missed their visits. He picked up his phone and texted John.

 _Planning to visit this weekend? SH_

 _Are you back home? JW_

 _Got in late last night. It was a rather interesting case. SW_

 _Oh? I've got nothing interesting going on tonight. I could come over and you can tell me about it. I'll have to find a sitter for Rosie. JW_

 _Bring her. The cot is still set up in your old room. I'll order Thai. SH_

 _Ok. What time? JW_

 _6:00 SH_

 _I have work and I'll have to get Rosie ready. It may be closer to 6:30 JW_

 _See you then. SH_

Sherlock tossed his phone onto his chair and started to pick up the flat a bit.

Xxxxxx

Evening fell. Sherlock put on water for tea and paced around the flat, surprisingly nervous. He was anxious to talk to Nero, even though he'd seen him less than 24 hours before. But there was also the lingering question of how John was going to take the news that he has a son with The Woman.

Sherlock checked his computer for the tenth time and looked in on the kettle again. The Thai takeout was on the table, two places and a high chair already set. He glanced out the window at the traffic on Baker Street. His beloved town was waking up for the evening, day was fading into night. Lights twinkled to life. And still he paced.

Heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs broke him out of his thoughts. A small smile crossed his face. He really had missed seeing Watson and Watson Junior.

"Evening Sherlock. Hope I'm not too late." John smiled, shifting Rosie from one arm to the other and putting their travel and nappy bags down.

"Lalalala!" Rosie babbled, reaching her arms out to Sherlock. His whole face warmed and he walked over quickly, settling her in his arms like a pro.

"And hello to you too, littler Watson." He beamed at her. "I'm going to get you to say 'Sherlock' one of these days."

Rosie responded by yelling "Lalalala!" even louder and grabbing a handful of his curly hair.

"Rosie!" John couldn't help but laugh as he came over and tried to get his daughter to turn loose, which just tightened her grip more and cause her to tug, making Sherlock grimace. Finally, Sherlock grabbed a toy she had left last time and shook it in front of her. It did the trick, she let go of his hair and grabbed at it with both hands, immediately putting it in her mouth and chewing contentedly.

While she was distracted, John took her back. "I'll go put her down upstairs and you can tell me about this case in Rome." Without another word, the two Watsons ascended the stairs.

It took a while for John to put Rosie down and get her to stop crying. In the meantime, Sherlock started his pacing again. How was he going to tell John? This isn't a subject that you just bring up out of the blue. 'Oh, by the way, I have a kid. Surprise!'

Sherlock's stomach knotted tighter and tighter the longer John took. When the crying finally stopped, and he heard the loud thunk of shoes down the stairs, his whole body tensed. This was it. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of glasses, and poured each of them a few fingers of a nice old Scotch Mycroft had given him years ago. He hardly drank, so it was still nearly full. This was as good an excuse as any to break it open again.

As John came down the stairs, Sherlock handed him a glass and waved his now free hand towards his chair."Have a seat, please."

John's face scrunched up a bit. "Sherlock, is this bad news?" He turned on the baby monitor next to his chair, then fell into his seat and took a long swig of the Scotch, wincing a bit.

Sherlock smiled softly."No, not in the least. It's good, though it's not very easy to talk about." He sat on the edge of his chair, barely using it at all. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor while he tried to figure out the best way to start. John, for his part, waited patiently.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath, downed the entirety of the glass, and put it to the side. "As you know, Irene Adler is not dead." As he spoke, a large smile filled John's face.

"Oh, I see where this is going. Spending some evenings in High Wycombe, are we?" John smirked and gave a little wink.

Sherlock sighed. "If you want me to explain, please stay quiet and let me do so" he snapped. John nodded, silently sipping his drink.

"Through the years, we only communicated through the occasional text, so I was quite surprised when she appeared at my flat about two weeks ago. She explained that she was living in Rome now, and she needed my help. Of course, I was quite skeptical as to why she would require my assistance. She told me her son had been in a car crash and she needed to find a match for a kidney transplant.."

"Her... son?" John started, but Sherlock silenced him with a look.

"At first, I admit I was confused as to why she would risk her safety to come to London when there's a transplant list the child would most certainly be on. But then it dawned on me..." Sherlock's voice trailed off.

After a moment to make sure it was OK for him to speak, John responded. "What dawned on you, Sherlock?"

"Think about it, John. Why would she come to me specifically?" Sherlock enjoyed giving John puzzles and watching him go from deep in thought to the moment of realization. John pondered it for a few moments, and Sherlock assisted him. "Why would she ask me to help her son with an organ transplant?"

Finally, the detective could see the awareness blooming on John's face. Sherlock watched with nervous anticipation as he put the pieces together. For a moment, the doctor was silent. He downed the rest of his Scotch and put the glass down with a slightly shaky hand.

"Christ, Sherlock. He's your son too, isn't he?" John ran a hand through his grey tinged hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded softly, bracing for the next response. When none came, he opened his eyes just in time to see John lean in and give him a short, awkward hug. "Congratulations, I suppose."

Sherlock's body untensed, and he finally sank back into his chair while John sat back down. "Thanks." he murmured.

"I assume this was sometime around the last time Miss Adler disappeared, so that would make the child about.. five or so?"

"He'll be six next month. Sadly, I'll miss that as well." He sighed. I've missed so much already." Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't going to get maudlin. "I asked you here because I promised Nero I'd try to video conference him every night. I'd like to introduce you."

John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Sherlock could tell that he was trying to decide what he wanted to ask first.

"So.. your..." There was a pause before John could form the word on his tongue. "...Your son. He just had a kidney transplant."

"Yes. Do try to keep up, please."

"And I assume it all went well?"

"Yes. There were no complications." Sherlock's voice was terse and short.

John looked at his glass, it looked to Sherlock like he was willing it to be full of Scotch again after these revelations.

"You.. and the woman..." He trailed off.

"I hadn't seen her in over six years before this. There is no _us._ "

"Oh." John ran his hand through his hair again. "And... you want to introduce me to your... son?"

"Before either of us knew his parentage, he was a fan of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. He's read all your blogs. When I spoke with him the first time, he was very excited and talked about how much he loved your website."

The slightest flush of red came to John's cheeks, but Sherlock stayed silent about it. "Well, of course. I'd love to talk to him. I... have to admit, I'm very curious about meeting the progeny of the great detective." John teased lightly. "And... Nero, huh? That's an interesting name. I see she kept the unusual Holmes naming convention."

Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "Nero William Adler. I had no say in his name, but I rather like it." He looked at the clock. "I'm a couple of minutes late in speaking with him. Let me make the call and I'll introduce you in a moment." He went over and dialed Nero's computer.

This was going to be interesting, he thought with a smile.


	10. Homecoming

The computer only rang once before Nero picked up on the other side. "I thought you'd forgotten!"

A little stab went through Sherlock's heart.

"Of course not, Nero. I was talking to John. I- "

"Doctor Watson is there? Really?" Sherlock heard the clear eagerness in his voice. He had to admit there was the very slightest hint of jealousy that Nero would want to talk to John, but on the other hand he was glad Nero was excited about meeting him. He was proud that his son and his best friend were most likely going to end up being good pals.

"Yes. One moment, I'll get him." Sherlock waved in a 'come here' motion to John, who was standing off to the side. He got up and offered John his seat silently. He could tell John wanted to say something, but he cut it off with a shake of his head, and a jerk to the side towards the computer.

John sat down, smiling at the boy on the other side of the screen. "It's nice to meet you, Nero. You look like what I'd guess Sherlock did as a child."

Nero giggled. "That's what Daddy told me, too. Maybe I can see some pictures of him when I come to live there!"

John was lucky he hadn't been drinking anything, or he would have done a spit take. He looked over to Sherlock, who was busy distracting himself, making a cup of tea in the kitchen. The detective looked suspiciously like he was trying to ignore John's scrutenizing gaze about not telling him about this beforehand.

John turned back to the computer, and Nero. "You're coming to live here? This is the first I've heard about that." The comment was directed back at Sherlock, who was now studying the inside of the sugar container quite fastidiously. No answer came from his direction.

"Yeah. I have to wait to heal, but Daddy said he's gonna get Uncle Mycroft to let mummy back into the country so we can stay there forever!"

"Ah well, it'll be good to see you in person. But until then, I heard you read all my blogs, hmm?"

"Yeah! I liked the one with the aluminium crutch.. Oh yeah, and the one with the dog too! That sounds like it was pretty scary."

"A bit, perhaps. It wasn't exactly a happy ending, but things worked out. I heard Henry's doing a lot better. He emails me once in awhile. I admit though, I have no desire to go back to Dartmoor myself."

A voice from off camera interrupted their conversation."Nero, dear. Shouldn't you talk to your father a bit? You can speak with John about the cases another time."

John smiled and nodded. "It was very nice to meet you, Nero. Heal up, and you'll be here sooner than you think." He turned around, expecting that Sherlock would still be in the kitchen, so he jumped a bit when he saw the man standing beside him, steaming cup of tea in hand, waiting to sit back down.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You trying to give me a heart attack? I have a sneaking suspicion you're part cat." He got up and Sherlock quickly took his seat. John went into the kitchen to see about a cuppa for himself.

The slight annoyance that Sherlock had at John winning his son's attention dissipated when Nero's face brightened as he sat back down and heard "Daddy!" Sherlock smiled warmly at his son.

"You haven't been driving your mother crazy, have you?"

"No."

"Well you should." Sherlock winked. The voice from off screen was louder this time. "Sherlock, don't you dare give him any ideas."

They both laughed.

 **Xxxxxx**

Irene let them talk a bit past his normal bedtime. Even though he was in the hospital, she still kept him to his normal sleep schedule. When it was time to go, Nero fussed and kept asking questions, trying to prolong the inevitable. Finally, she'd had enough.

"Say goodnight, Nero. I'm turning the computer off in twenty seconds."

Nero sighed. "Goodnight Daddy." There was the slightest bit of hesitation at the end of the sentence, like he wanted to say more.

Three little words had been left unsaid since they met. Sherlock had not been able to say them before he left the hospital, and the detective wondered if that was what Nero had tried to say just now, before something stopped him.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. He willed those words to come out of his mouth, but he couldn't form the phrase on his tongue, his throat closed up. He let out a little breath of frustration and shook his head. "Goodnight, Nero. I'll talk with you again tomorrow night." The connection died on the other side, and Sherlock slumped back in his seat with a sigh.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry about monopolizing your time with Nero. It wasn't what I'd intended." John had a guilty look on his face. Sherlock guessed he must have thought that was why he was upset. It wasn't the case, but Sherlock didn't bother to correct him.

"It's fine, John. Really." Sherlock said a bit brusquely. He got up and headed back to the kitchen and took out his microscope, pushing the food over to the side as he started to look at some slides. John took it as a sign the conversation was over. The food in the kitchen was cold, the table partially taken over by whatever Sherlock had started working on. John grabbed a plate, microwaved it, and took it to the living room with a beer, plopping down in his usual chair.

The evening went quietly. The baby monitor was thankfully silent all evening. After having his dinner, putting the uneaten portion from the table in the fridge (as usual Sherlock didn't touch his food) , and watching some crap telly for a few hours, John retired upstairs.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." There was a slight nod of the head as a response, but no words.

Life at 221B Baker Street was back to normal.

 **Xxxxxx**

Time marched on. As soon as Lestrade found out Sherlock was available again, he was running around London, working on cases. On the weekends, he and John attempted to make the flat at least partially livable for three people. There was over a decade of his life to go through, it was a project that couldn't be done in a couple of weekends.

One morning not long after he got back, Sherlock knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. Her face lit up as always when he came to talk to her. "Sherlock, dear, come in. I'll put the kettle on." He walked in and immediately went to her fridge, pulling out a blueberry scone and nibbling on it as he sat at her kitchen table.

When she was done with the kettle she sat across from him and put her hand on top of his on the table. "So, what can I do for you dearie?"

"I want to add the basement flat, 221C, to my rent. I have the intention of remodeling it enough to make it livable." Sherlock took another bite of the scone, tensing slightly, knowing where the questioning was going to go.

"That's fine. I could never rent it out anyways. But why do you need another room?" She gasped. "Is John coming back to live here? Oh, I'd love to see little Rosie more! She's getting so big! I-"

Sherlock interrupted her, lest she ramble on all day.

"No, I think John and Rosie are quite comfortable where they are. I'll have... someone else living here. We'll need two rooms."

"Someone else? Who? Is it someone I've met?" She looked like was going to say more when the kettle started to whistle. She got up and made two cups of teas, his with light milk and three sugars. She knew exactly how he took it, even with her insistence that she wasn't his housekeeper. She came back, handed him his tea, and sat down. "So, who is it? It better not be one of your homeless friends. I don't want any bad influences on Rosie when she visits."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was tired of beating around the bush, so he came right out with it. "My son, and his mother."

Mrs. Hudson nearly choked on her tea. Sherlock had anticipated such a reaction. As soon as he finished speaking, he stood up and leaned across the table, gently patting her back. Her face was red, and she coughed a few times, then put her cup down with a shaky hand. "Your... son?" She was finally able to ask, her voice slightly raspy from the coughing fit.

"Yes. I've only known of Nero for about three weeks now. He and his mother are in Rome at the moment. It'll be at least two months before they can move, so I'd like to get started on the renovations as soon as possible."

Mrs. Hudson moved to open her mouth, then closed it again, truly flabbergasted. After a moment to gather herself, she got up and gave Sherlock a tight hug, tears coming to her eyes. "Who ever would've thought. My Sherlock's a father. Do you have a picture of him? What's he like? How old is he? Is he-"

Once again he interrupted her.

"I didn't take a picture of him while I was in Rome. I talk to him via the computer every night. If you'd like, I can introduce you to him." Sherlock smiled softly, as he often did when he talked about Nero. "He's a brilliant boy, and no, I'm not biased. He's actually extremely intelligent. He'll be six in two months."

Mrs. Hudson grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. "Both my boys are parents now. I never would have guessed in a million years." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 _Yes, because you were convinced that John and I were sleeping together._

But he held his tongue, and steered her back to the topic at large.

"So I can expect the flat to be added to next month's bill?"

"Yes, I'll change the amount drafted on Monday. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so happy for you., It's about time you settled down and started a family." She squeezed his hand again. Sherlock didn't really want to argue the point that he and Irene were not married, and he didn't intend to change that, so he just smiled and nodded.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock stood up, finishing the last of the scone, and brushing the crumbs off onto the floor. "I look forward to the challenge of getting 221C into shape." He turned towards the door, but looked back at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Without another word, he was out the door and up the stairs, two at a time to his flat.

Immediately, he picked up his phone and dialed his brother.

"Good morning, Brother mine. Who do you know that can renovate a flat?"


	11. London

Mycroft, it seemed, always 'knew people', no matter what it was that needed doing. Finding a company to renovate 221C was no different. What to Sherlock should've been a short, basic project became much more elaborate than he'd intended. Mycroft spared no expense when it came to his nephew. Sherlock constantly reminded him that there was a tight schedule when it came to finishing the work, but his brother insisted it would be ready in time.

"Speaking of in time..." Sherlock stopped Mycroft as he wandered around 221C to oversee the construction. "Do you have any news about Ms. Adler's immigration status?" It'd been nearly a month since he'd returned from Rome, and he'd done well so far to not bother Mycroft about it, but Nero was getting more and more anxious since he got out of the hospital to make sure they'd be able to move to London as soon as possible. Sherlock had been trying to busy himself with getting the new flat ready so he wouldn't tie himself up in knots counting down the days until thier arrival.

"Actually, I was going to speak to you about that." Mycroft left the basement flat to get away from the hammering and buzzsaws and made his way up the steps to 221B, Sherlock right on his heels.

"Everything is progressing well. I only have a few more very minor issues to correct before Ms. Adler and her son will be able to immigrate into the UK. I've managed to track down and neutralize what I believe are all of the clients that Ms. Adler has come into contact with. It was no small feat." Sherlock begrudgingly nodded his head. He had to admit he was quite surprised that Mycroft had put so much actual legwork into clearing Irene's name. It was more proof that The Iceman did indeed care for the welfare of his nephew.

"She won't have to stay under an assumed name?" Sherlock asked, still a bit skeptical.

"No." Mycroft's face grew cold and serious. "But I must impress upon you, and her, that if she steps out of line, even the slightest bit, I will not be able to help her, or her son."

Sherlock nodded. "Duly noted."

Mycroft went back to his normal, stoic tone. "As she never renounced her citizenship, she's still a citizen of the UK and should have no problem acquiring the proper identification. Nero, however, is a slightly different story." The elder Holmes took a seat in John's old chair, leaning his umbrella against the side, then continued.

"I've taken the liberty of doing some research to that regard. A child born to a British citizen father may acquire citizenship from him even if the parents were not married to each other, which I believe we can safely assume you were not." Sherlock said nothing, his frown was enough of an answer.

"The child will be a British citizen from birth automatically provided there is satisfactory evidence of paternity. For Nero's citizenship, you'll have to fill out Form MN1 and use Section 4F as the reason- for a child of unwed parents. If Ms. Adler put you as the child's father on his birth certificate, you'll most likely not have to take a paternity test."

"She told me she had. I'll have her send an official copy to me as soon as possible to confirm it."

Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned forward. "There is... one other thing we should discuss." Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look.

"The boy is a Holmes. Have you given any thought to changing his last name? Most likely it'll be easier to do once he's a British citizen, and citizenship can take six months, so it isn't a pressing need. Still, I believe you should talk to his mother about this if you haven't already."

Sherlock had indeed thought about it, but he'd known the child for less than three months now. It was a lot to ask him to change his last name. While Sherlock had little care for the perpetuation of the family name, he had to admit there was, deep inside of him, a desire for his son to carry his last name. It had everything to do with his personal legacy, and not with the familial lineage.

He knew, though, that it wasn't fair to ask this of Nero, and Irene. She'd carried him, given birth to him, and raised him. She'd given him her last name. He was merely a name on the birth certificate. Sherlock knew it was an act of selfishness to want Nero to have his last name.

But that didn't mean he wanted it any less.

Having Nero's last name as Adler made him feel like he was a temporary presence in the boy's life. And that was something he could not abide. He'd already lost so much time when it came to Nero. Sherlock was determined to spend every moment he could with his son. Having his last name changed to Holmes would be a permanent reminder- they were bonded, and always would be.

"It's something I'll discuss with her soon." Sherlock rubbed small circles around his temples. This was becoming a headache- quite literally- with workers coming in and out of the basement flat all day, the whirr of machines and hammering of nails, and now the worries about paternity, citizenship, and name changes.

Mycroft stood up and took his umbrella. "Well, I have to get back to the office. The renovations are in good hands. I'll check back in a few days. Until then, brother mine."

And just like that, Sherlock was by himself again. He sighed and slumped in his chair. It was going to be a very long few months.

 **Xxxxxx**

The months ended up going by much faster than Sherlock had anticipated. Between working with Greg on cases, checking in on the renovations, getting his own flat ready, and his experiments, time seemed to pass in a blur.

During their nightly chats, Nero had been telling his father about how things were busy in Rome. Sherlock's flat, even with the addition of 221C, was going to be much smaller than where they were living now. Nero told him he was having to go through all of his belongings. He had to decide what he could keep, and of the rest, what would be left behind, sold, and given to charity. It was a tough decision, and Sherlock praised him for doing a very grown up thing. He'd already arranged with Irene to have the possessions they were keeping packed and shipped to his flat. The shipment was scheduled to arrive a week after thier arrival in London

Everything fell into place. The basement flat was completed with a couple of days to spare. Sherlock enlisted the help of Molly and John to pick out a bed, table, and dresser, choosing a blue theme to go with the shade of blue on the walls.

As the day approached, Sherlock became more and more nervous. Over the last months he'd been used to having the flat to himself, save the weekend visits from the Watsons. He wasn't even sure if he was ready to share 221B again, especially with a child. Because of Rosie, the house was mostly childproofed, though Sherlock did run experiments in his kitchen, but John made him promise they'd be completed and put away before he and Rosie came over.

The evening before their flight arrived, Sherlock got less sleep than usual, He couldn't concentrate on his experiments, and ended up spending most of the evening in his mind palace, thinking back on the many online conversations he'd had with Nero, giving each of them a place on a bookshelf in the room he'd created for his son.

The morning dawned, surprisingly warm and clear for a fall day in London. He attempted to eat a few pieces of toast, but his stomach was so twisted that he gave up after a few bites. The morning crawled along like a slug. Hours were like days, watching the clock ticking on the wall just made it worse.

Finally Sherlock decided he had to get out of the flat. He'd get a coffee at Heathrow and deduce people while he waited. He took a taxi, made his way to Terminal Three, where Nero and The Woman would be arriving, and found a coffee shop ironically called Caffe Nero, where he took a seat and observed.

Other than people watching, there was very little to see in the airport lobby he was looking out into, mostly stark white walls, speckled white and brown floors, and tiled white ceilings, broken up by the odd shop and bright yellow sign, directing the recently arrived passengers where to go.

Among the more interesting things he deduced as he sipped his coffee was a woman who was keeping a very serious illness from her husband, a man who was embezzling from the bank he worked at, and another man who was keeping three separate mistresses from his wife, whom he'd been married to for at least thirty years.

When it was time, he made his way out of the cafe, walked the few meters past Tourist Services, and took a seat right outside Customs and the Duty Free shop. He nervously kicked his feet back and forth, watching each group of people that walked by to see if Irene and Nero were among them. He looked up at the Information screen for at least the dozenth time. About ten minutes before, it'd changed from 'Landed' to 'Baggage in Hall', which meant they'd be picking up their bags and shouldn't be long.

Sherlock stood up and nervously paced back and forth, his eyes scanning for any sight of them. After what seemed like a lifetime, he spotted Irene in a tight white dress and high black heels. She noticed him a few moments later, and flashed him a quick smile. His whole body thrummed with nervous excitement as he watched her weave around the winding queue they had to maneuver through. He waited where it ended, a smile breaking across his face when he and Nero finally locked eyes.

Nero dropped the small rolling suitcase he had been dragging. His face lit up. "Daddy!" He ran full tilt, almost knocking Sherlock over when he attached himself to the detective's legs like a barnacle.

"Hello, Nero. It's great to see you up and around." Sherlock reached down and gave him a slightly awkward hug at an odd angle.

"I'm ready to go home!"

 _Home. It'll be home now, for all of us._

"Hold on, we have to wait for your mother." Sherlock smiled lightly and looked up. He could see Irene was not happy about now having to tote an extra bag- she was still past the barrier so Sherlock couldn't help her- but she was still smiling all the same.

"Nero, please go help your mother with your bag. The sooner you do, the sooner we can head to Baker Street." He figured the guards wouldn't care about a kid running back through the barrier to grab his own bag. Nero ran off, grabbed the bag, and pulled it as fast as he could back to Sherlock.

"Come on, mummy! Walk faster!" To her credit, despite shaking her head, she did increase her pace, and a few moments later, joined them in the airport common area.

"Welcome back to London." He smiled at The Woman, and she grinned warmly in return.

"It's nice to be back."

They headed towards the bank of taxis outside, which lead them past the cafe where Sherlock had sipped his coffee. "Look, Nero. There's a whole cafe named after you." Sherlock grinned. "But you are a bit young to be drinking coffee."

Nero giggled. "I'm famous!"

Sherlock leaned down and ruffled his hair. "Of course you are.

They caught a taxi, piling their luggage in the boot. Irene took the front passenger seat so Sherlock could sit in the back with Nero and point out some of the sights of London as they passed. At first, there wasn't much to see while they circled around the northern part of the airport to head towards London proper, but when the city started to come into view, Nero's eyes got as large as saucers.

That's the River Brent." Sherlock remarked as they went across the M4 Bridge. It's a tributary of the Thames. We'll go past the Thames, but not over it. I'll take you on a bridge tour sometime. Some have quite fascinating histories." Nero, for his part, was silent, taking everything in, absorbing London like a sponge.

They passed over the Brent, and past the Boston Manor Playing Fields, with their numerous football and cricket fields on both sides of the highway, they entered downtown London. Large buildings, ancient and new, loomed over them from every side.

Sherlock pointed to a large area of green in the heart of London. "That's Gunnersbury Park and Cemetery. There's a museum and a miniature golf course in there."

After passing the Chiswick House and Gardens, the mighty River Thames came into view. They turned northeast and followed the river, where the detective pointed out the London office for The Walt Disney Company, and St. Paul's Green, which had a church that dated back to the early 17th century. Even if Sherlock didn't believe in religion, he appreciated the history and beauty of the old churches dotted around his town.

They took a turn to the east, past dozens of row houses, then north again past Westfield London, where Sherlock promised he'd take Nero shopping one day soon. One more turn east and they were almost home- over the Paddington Basin, another few turns and past The Regent's Park, and finally onto Baker Street.

Sherlock paid the cabbie while Irene tried to wrangle Nero and keep him from dashing away before everyone else was ready. They gathered the luggage from the boot, and walked up to the front door, where Sherlock's face faded into a frown.

The knocker was straight.

"Damn." Sherlock swore under his breath, thinking he was lucky that Irene hadn't heard him. He was pretty sure she wouldn't like him cursing in front of their son. "Why is my brother here?"


	12. Brother Mine

Sherlock grabbed the luggage and took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the flat, only to find Mycroft sitting in his black leather chair, umbrella and briefcase leaned up against the side, one leg crossed over the other, and hands steepled under his chin. Sherlock was silently glad that Mrs. Hudson was out of town for a couple more days, this was already going to be awkward enough as is.

"Good afternoon, brother mine." Mycroft said with mock cheerfulness. Before he continued, he took a moment to listen to the clomping up the stairs of two more sets of feet. "It sounds like my nephew and his mother have successfully made it to London."

"Daddy, why did you run up the stairs so..." Nero's voice trailed off when he topped the stairs and stepped into the room, his suitcase immediately discarded to the side. His eyes were as wide as saucers as he took the whole flat in. Sherlock had taken him for a virtual tour of the flat several times during their computer chats, but it was nothing like actually being in the real thing.

Both of the Holmes brothers were quiet for a few minutes, letting the boy soak in his new home. Irene stood silently behind him, eying the elder brother warily. Sherlock finally broke the silence. "Mycroft, meet Nero. Nero, Mycroft."

As soon as he said that, the flat was forgotten. Nero walked slowly over to his uncle, the man whom he had heard a lot about from his father. As Nero approached, Mycroft stood to his full height. A few heartbeats went by while the older man said nothing, simply looking the child over. Sherlock could see the slightest change in his countenance- his mask slipped for just a moment, showing what almost looked like tenderness- then it was back. Mycroft nodded his head, giving a little half smile. "Nero."

Nero looked up at him, silent for a moment. "Daddy says you might be a rubbish uncle because you don't know how to deal with children."

A loud snicker came from the other side of the room. Irene had taken a seat on the couch, watching how her son interacted with the Iceman and the Virgin. "Out of the mouths of babes." She smiled. Sherlock leaned down and ruffled his son's curly hair.

"Babes and high functioning sociopaths." Mycroft mumbled, then settled back into Sherlock's chair with a low grunt. Sherlock looked over to The Woman. "Ms. Adler, let me show you to your room upstairs. It used to be John's, but he never did much with it. Feel free to redecorate it as you wish. I left it as it was, a blank slate. Nero, stay with your uncle for a moment, please." Sherlock and Irene went upstairs with her suitcases, leaving them alone.

"So..." Nero said as he stared at Mycroft intently. "Daddy says you're the British Government. Can you order someone to be killed?"

"Do you want someone killed?" Nero's eyes went wide and he took a nervous, stuttering step back. He opened his mouth but no words came out.

Mycroft smirked, shaking his head slightly. "No, Nero. I can't have anybody killed. I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"That's what Daddy says you tell people just to get them to stop asking."

Mycroft sighed. If he was going to be in this boy's life in any capacity, what he did for a living was going to become a subject of interest sooner rather than later. "It's actually not a lie. I do work for the British Government. Other than that, I sadly can't say much else. Honestly, you wouldn't find it interesting at all. It's all meetings and paperwork. Your father is the one who does the.." He made a disgusted face. "... legwork."

That seemed to sate Nero's interest for the moment at least, so Mycroft changed the subject. "You turned six a month ago, is that correct, Nero?" The child nodded. Mycroft reached down, grabbed his briefcase, and opened it. He took out a rectangular item and handed it to his nephew. It was a wrapped present.

"For me?"

"Yes. I apologize I didn't send anything to Rome, but I thought it might be more practical to wait since this would've had to have been packed up."

Nero ripped into it, carelessly tossing the paper to the floor around him. A huge smile filled his face. He hugged the item to his chest, holding it tight. "Thank you! I love it!" He pulled it away, looking at it again. It was a thick book, an anthology of detective stories from various authors.

A moment later, Sherlock and Irene came down the stairs. Nero ran to meet them, grasping the book tight in front of him. "Mummy! Daddy! Look what Uncle Mycroft got me! Its a detective novel!" He held it up proudly. As Nero spoke, Sherlock looked over to his brother. There was a twinge of something, when Nero called him 'Uncle Mycroft'. It was... warmth. The Iceman was melting.

 _Caring is not an advantage, indeed._

Irene smiled down at him. "That's great, dear. I'm sure you'll love it. Did you tell him 'thank you'?"

"He did." Mycroft answered. Nero immediately jumped onto the couch, opened the book, and started reading.

"Well, that'll keep him busy for a while." The Woman joked quietly.

"Actually, I need to show Nero his room as well." Sherlock looked over to his son, who was already engrossed in the first story. "Nero, come downstairs with me. I want to show you your room."

"But I just started reading this.. It's a locked door mystery. A woman dies in an apartment with the doors locked from the inside, but there were signs of a struggle and she was shot by someone else!"

Sherlock had to smile. The apple truly didn't fall far from the tree. He wondered how long it would be before Nero was deducing the endings before he read them. "Come along. It'll only take a moment." Nero grumbled, but he put down his book and followed his father out the door and down the stairs. Irene and Mycroft followed a few steps behind. Mycroft had seen the room when the construction was finished, but he hadn't seen it since they'd decorated.

Sherlock opened the new door and stepped in and to the side, so Nero could come in behind him. "This is going to be your room, Nero. If there's anything you don't like we can change it-" Sherlock made a soft 'oof' noise as Nero hugged him as tightly as he could.

"I love it! It's amazing! My bed looks like a race car! And there are animals marching around the walls, and..." He pauses to look at the ceiling. "Are those glow in the dark stars on the ceiling?"

"Your mother said you like animals and race cars. And yes. I tried to put as many constellations as I could, though I ran out of room after half a dozen. When it gets dark, I can teach you what they are."

"Sherlock." Irene's voice was soft. "What you did for him. This is... wonderful." She ran a hand lightly up and down his back, sending a little shiver down his spine. Even after all this time, she could still elicit a response from him.

Nero finally let go of his father and ran to the bed, jumping on it. "It's great! Like I'm sleeping in a race car! Vrrrroooooom!" Warmth pooled around Sherlock like a blanket when he watched how happy Nero was at this moment. Just when Sherlock almost begins to think that Nero is a smaller adult, he gets tiny reminders like these that at his core, Nero is still a little boy who has his entire lifetime ahead of him.

He's just getting started.

 **Xxxxxx**

Mycroft left a short time later. Nero decided he wanted to read his book on his new bed, so he hauled it downstairs and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Irene spent some time getting settled in and unpacked. When she was done, she came back downstairs to find Sherlock reading in his chair. She walked over, gently putting her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened for an instant, then relaxed under her touch. He put his book on the table to the side.

"It's nice to see some things never change." She smiled down at him.

"The flat, or me?" He smirked back.

Her answer was a non-committal shrug. "Take your pick, I suppose."

There was a charged atmosphere to the silence. Her touch was mostly chaste, but had lingered much too long for just a friendly gesture. His eyes met hers.

 _Pupils slightly dilated, heatbeat only marginally elevated. She is anxious but not aroused._

Sherlock's mind sped through all of the possibilities of his next move, and their consequences. His hand moved towards her, his palm hovering just millimeters over her soft skin, before he pulled back. Nero was downstairs, and there was no telling when he would come back through the door. He's rather not be caught in a compromising position, even if it was with his mother.

He could read the anxiousness on her face. She was was unsure as he was about where they wanted to go next. She still had feelings for him, but what they were was hard to know. Irene had always been a hard woman to read, one of the only people whom he couldn't easily deduce.

He could see the disappointment in her eyes when it became clear that he was not going to reciprcate her touch. She slowly drew her hand away from his shoulder and went to sit in John's chair, finding herself a book to read.

There was a twinge of regret in Sherlock's mind. Despite the years, he still found himself attracted to both her intellect and her body. The feeling seemed to be mutual. But they'd never had what could be called anything resembling a normal relationship.

They had drifted in and out of each other's lives randomly for over seven years now, yet he still knew surprisingly little about her, like her favorite food, or what genre of music or movies she liked, all those random (boring) things that a person should know about someone they want to pursue a relationship with.

He shook those thoughts out of his head and went back to his book. He'd found a recommendation for this book on the internet when he was searching under the subject of children. It'd had a lot of good reviews. _Fathering Your School-Age Child: A Dad's Guide to the Wonder Years._

 **Xxxxxx**

Dinner was take away Chinese from a place just down the road. Nero was already more than a dozen chapters into his book. Sherlock and Irene had to literally pull the anthology away from him to get him to come upstairs for supper.

Afterwards, just as Sherlock had promised, when Nero was finished getting ready for bed, he took his son downstairs and tucked him in, giving him a little kiss on the forehead. He got up and turned off the lights, then sat on the edge of the bed.

He pointed to the group of stars over where Nero's head would lay on his pillow. "That's Ursa Minor. And here, below and to the left is Cygnus. That's Latin for swan. Below that, is Pegasus. To the right is Bootes. Below that is Virgo, and to the right is Aquilla. Sadly, that's all I had room for on this small ceiling."

"Can you tell me more about them?" Nero tried to stifle a yawn at the end of his sentence..

Sherlock smiled warmly. "Maybe tomorrow. It's past your bedtime. You've had a long day today." He gently pulled Nero's curls away from his forehead and placed the most gentle of kisses in the center.

"Good night, Nero." He paused for a brief moment. His whole body tensed, his heart clenched, and then he finally said those words he'd yearned to for so long now. "I love you."

There was no hesitation in the response. "I love you too, Daddy."

Sherlock' heart _exploded_ with joy.


	13. Home

Mrs. Hudson came back from visiting her sister a couple of days later. Her introduction to Nero was as tearful as Sherlock figured it'd be. After a lot of hugging and baking cookies and scones as a welcoming gift, things started to settle down into normalcy.

As the week went on, Nero became more and more excited. He was finally going to meet the famous Doctor John Watson face to face. When Irene came to wake him up on Saturday morning, he was already awake, almost finished with the detective anthology Mycroft had given him less than a week before. He quickly got dressed and ready, and darted up the steps into 221B.

Sherlock was taking Rosie out of John's hands when Nero came bursting in. Irene had been picking up a rattle that the ninteen month old had lost when they all turned to look at him.

"Good morning, Nero. Did you sleep well?" John finished handing his daughter over to Sherlock and walked over to Nero, who was still rooted to the spot where he stepped in. "It's nice to finally see you face to face." He kneeled down and smiled. "You certainly do look like your father. You've got his eyes."

Finally, after a slightly awkward silence, Nero threw himself forward and gave John a big hug. The movement surprised the doctor, but he immediately hugged Nero back.

"Who dis?" Rosie pointed at Nero, who broke his hug to look at her.

John smiled and stood up, taking his daughter back from Sherlock and walking over to Nero. "This is Nero. He's your Uncle Sherlock's son."

"Lalalal!" Rosie babbled happily.

"Yes, Uncle Lala." He giggled. "Can you say Nero?"

"Ne'o!"

"Close enough." John smiled at Nero. "If you want to sit down, I can put her in your lap. She probably won't stay long, but I think it's important for you two to start getting to know each other."

Nero looked extremely nervous, but nodded his head. "If... you.. think so..."

"You won't hurt her. I promise." John smiled warmly. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't think you were fully capable. And I'll be right here too."

"Alright." He climbed up on the couch and situated himself. John brought Rosie and a toy over to hopefully placate her for a few moments. He sat her in Nero's lap, and slowly let go, staying close by.

At first, she wasn't sure what to think, and it looked like she was about to cry, until Nero shook her toy. She giggled and held out her chubby little hands for it. She grabbed it and immediately took it into her mouth and started happily chewing on it, drool running down either side of her mouth, perfectly content.

"See? She likes you." John smiled.

"She doesn't care about who's holding her as long as she has that." Nero playfully shot back.

"No, if she really didn't want to be there, she'd let us know. Ask Mycroft."

Nero looked to his father. "Does Rosie not like Uncle Mycroft?" He asked.

A smile spread across Sherlock's face. "The first time he held her, she cried and threw up on him." A pause. "Actually, that was the last time he held her as well."

Everyone had a good laugh.

 **Xxxxxxx**

Later in the day, while Rosie was down for a nap, and Nero had gone back to his room to try to finish his detective novel, John made some enough tea for everyone, and brought the four cups out into the living room.

"I was thinking." Sherlock started. "I still need to introduce Nero to my parents, as well as Lestrade and Molly. If we set a date, I'm sure my brother can 'make sure' neither of them will be scheduled that day. The sooner the better. My parents are retired, so other than their trips to go line dancing, they're free any weekend. I'm thinking two Saturdays from now. That should give all parties enough time to make preparations. Of course, I can trust all of you to have discretion not to tell them about Nero beforehand."

All three heads nodded.

John cleared his throat." Um, Sherlock, I don't think its a good idea to spring having a child on your parents with no prior warning. I've seen how that can affect people, and your parents are much older than I am. I'd worry for their health."

Sherlock frowned. He hated being reminded of his time away from London, all the horrors that he saw...

 _No._

He shook those thoughts out of his head. He'd thought it would be nice to see his parents' faces when they first saw their grandson, but as usual, John had a point. Perhaps it would be best to give them some forewarning.

"Fine. I'll get Mycroft to tell them why they're coming down." Sherlock conceded.

"And.- " John started again. "We should let them come first, and have some time with their grandson before Greg and Molly get here. I know I needed time to process when you came back, and I'm sure they'll need time for this as well."

"Alright, alright. Mycroft can bring them over early." Sherlock hated admitting that John was right on all counts. He attempted to wave off the ideas as a necessary nuisance.

.

"Good. If that's all decided then, I'll get in touch with Mycroft and set the plan in motion. Mrs. Hudson, you can help Irene and I with snacks and drinks. John, if you'd like to stop over early with Rosie and help as well, you can. It's nothing fancy, just a get together."

While the others sipped on their tea, Sherlock got his phone out.

 _ **Two Saturdays from now. You and our parents at Baker Street to meet Nero. Lestrade and Ms. Hooper will be there as well. I need you to prepare our parents, tell them why they are coming so we won't have any medical emergencies. SH**_

 _ **I'll arrange it. But if you think I'm taking them for a tour of London or to any shows, you're sorely mistaken, brother mine. -M-**_

Sherlock had to chuckle at that. He'd never forget how desperate Mycroft sounded when he called from _Le Miserables_. He had a special pedestal in his mind palace for that particular phone call.

 _ **I'm sure my parents would love to take Nero around town. I believe you'll get a reprieve this time, brother. Ten A.M. I'm sure you can make sure Lestrade and Molly have the day off. SH**_

He could just imagine Mycroft sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose like he did when Sherlock pushed his buttons, which was as often as he could get away with.

 _ **You do realize you're using favors that you don't have. -M-**_

 _ **You do realize this is YOUR nephew we're talking about, and our parent's first and most likely ONLY grandchild. SH**_

There was another pause before the next text came in.

 _ **For Nero, and our parents. Not for you. -M-**_

That was good enough for Sherlock. Everything was set.

 _ **Xxxxxx**_

Of course as soon as Mycroft gave his parents the news, the first thing they did was call Sherlock, alternately berating them for not telling them before and gushing about how excited they were to meet their only grandson.

It took him almost an hour to finally get them off the phone. By the end of it, he had a throbbing headache and the thought that maybe it wasn't a good idea to have so many people in the flat at one time.

But it was too late now.

The morning of the gettogether (Sherlock refused to call it a party) came. Greg and Molly were both scheduled to be picked up by one of Mycroft's cars and dropped off to Baker Street around 11A.M.

Sherlock, Irene, and Mrs. Hudson started on the food. Nero insisted that he wanted to help as well. Mrs. Hudson came up with the idea of him making little name signs for everyone, so they could keep track of their own plates and cups. A quick run to Tesco for some construction paper and crayons, and Nero went to work in the living room.

When John and Rosie arrived, Nero went into babysitting mode. Over the last couple of weeks, they had bonded fairly well. Rosie was still not one hundred percent sure of him, but Nero had really taken to watching over her well. He was a protective big brother figure for her.

All the conversation stopped when three sets of feet came up the stairs. Three distinct voices could be heard as they got closer and closer. Sherlock's entire body tensed, and Nero went to stand close to his father, his arm around his dad's legs.

Over the chatter, Sherlock could hear his mother's voice as clear as day. "Now where is my grandson?" She came in the room first, her husband a step behind, and Mycroft last, wearing an already weary expression despite the earliness of the day.

Almost relflexively, Nero hid slightly behind his father's legs. He tended to be an outgoing child but he was always slightly nervous when it came to meeting strangers. By the time he'd actually met John face to face, he was hardly a stranger any more because of all the evening chats they'd had over the computer. But these two, he knew nothing about, despite being related by blood.

Sherlock's mother saw Nero. She kneeled down and held her arms out. "Nero, dear, come give your grandmother a hug!" Nero looked up nervously at his father, who smiled and nodded his head. Nervously, Nero crept out from behind his father and made his way across the room, into the arms of his grandmother. There was a moment of awkwardness until he melted into the hug and returned it fully.

After a moment she pulled him back to take a look at him. "My God, you're the spitting image of our Sherlock when he was a child, unruly hair and all." She smiled at him and he smiled back genuinely.

"She's right you know." Sherlock's father added. "We can only hope that you're less precocious than he was at your age. By six he was already finding frogs in the back garden to dissect."

"They wouldn't let me disect one in Year Two!" Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

"Sherlock, six year olds don't usually want to disect frogs." John replied.

"I do!" All eyes went to Nero. He immediately blushed. "Well, I think it'd be intersting to see what makes em tick. They're pretty cool, frogs."

Sherlock walked over to Nero and patted his head. "That's my boy." he said proudly.

 **Xxxxxx**

The hour passed quickly. Everyone in the room was chatting, drinking punch, and comparing funny stories about Sherlock when two more sets of feet trudged up the stairs.

"Okay, so what was this important meeting that you wanted us to..." Greg's voice trailed off as he saw everyone else in the room.

"Sherlock, are you having a party?" Molly asked. As she looked around the room, she spotted Nero first. She didn't recognize the two older adults sitting on the couch, but could make a guess as to who they were, as they reminded her a lot of Sherlock. The woman in the slinky black dress struck a chord of familiarity, but she couldn't quite place her face, where she had seen that woman before. But the child, he looked like a younger version of...

"Sherlock?" It was a question as much as a statement. That got Greg's attention. He turned to where she was looking and drew in a sharp breath.

"Greg, Molly, This is Nero William Adler. My son." Nero, who'd been playing with Rosie, looked up at his dad, then over to the two newcomers.

Sherlock looked down at his son. "Nero, I've told you about Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He gave me my first real case. And Molly Hooper, my pathologist friend. She's been there for me when I needed her for many years now.

"Wow, Sherlock. Congratulations, mate." Greg walked over and clapped him on the back hard enough to make Sherlock take a stutter step forward.

Molly came over next and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. It was just a friendly peck, but Sherlock noticed the look that Irene flashed their direction. He couldn't help but feel a little rush of protective warmth at that. He would always care for Molly, as a friend, but his heart belonged to someone else.

Sherlock finished up with his introductions. "This is Nero's mother, Irene Adler. And on the couch are my parents. I think we finally have all the introductions in order." Sherlock felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders at that admission.

After a moment, the initial shock wore off, and everyone became engaged in was done. Everyone who was important to him, all of his friends now knew about his family, and he was glad for it. As he looked around the room, he realized that he was surrounded by the people he cared for most, and that cared for him in return. He had never thought he'd have any friends, much less a room full of people he would consider more like family. But here he was. A warm smile filled his face.

This truly was home.


End file.
